Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Year end reminiscence

One of the most intimate moments of my life took place in an airport terminal. Sort of like in the movies, but not all contrived, and with no soundtrack.

Poster Boy and I had spent months on the road together. First, traveling the U.S. in a van, working side-by-side for insane 16-day stretches, 15+ hour days, days in which we fought, and spat and snapped at each other, but days in which our respect for one another grew as we totally nailed the job, kicked its ass and wiped with it.

We explored cities we’d never seen before, we befriended or alienated locals, depending on where we were, we ate gloriously though cheaply, (The best barbeque in the world in North Carolina, greasy cheese steaks in Philly—wiz wit—deep fried cheese curds in Wisconsin, his first oyster on the half shell in pre-Katrina New Orleans) we destroyed hotel rooms, we saw kickass bands in strange cities and made friends we’d never see again, we nursed hangovers while the other drove long hours down the highway. We made out at the top of the empire state building.

Then we went to Europe, where we ate mushrooms in Amsterdam, twice, and I freaked out the first time, and he freaked out the second time, we both got scabies from dirty hostel sheets, we saw the Beastie Boys in a squatter village tent in Rome, we got drunk everywhere, we slept on trains side by side, wandered the Irish countryside where we ran into a redheaded farmer in rubber overalls walking a cow down a road (we asked him for directions, and his accent was so thick we just smiled and nodded), we were confused for Germans everywhere we went, failed repeatedly to speak the local language, got lost in a drunken fight in Venice, got so poor we stole bread from a breakfast buffet in Prague, we had a funny hangover day in Dublin. We made out at the top of the eiffel tower.

After a couple of months, time was up. We went back to New York. We got tattoos in Manhattan, went to our favorite Jewish deli. We were jetlagged together. Then we flew back to the West Coast. Boarded our last plane.

It used to be that as soon as you got off the plane, your family was there to meet you. We all know that in the post-9/11 world, you weave through the terminal, past security that's roping your family off, because your loved ones don’t have boarding passes. So Poster Boy and I walked through the airport with our heavy, smelly backpacks pulling our shoulders down. We were at our home base airport, so we knew when we got to the turn around which our parents were waiting. We stopped.

We looked at each other, and we kissed. We were terrified. We had not seen anyone we’d known for a long time. We hadn’t been away from each other for more than a few hours. And around that corner, standing teary-eyed, were both of our MOTHERS. And our DADS. We looked each other in the eye, squeezed each other’s hands, and both knew there was no way to avoid going. It was done. Our unit was about to be splintered. It was all over.

And that moment, right before we looked away, just before he and I each turned the corner, just before he and I and let go of the other’s hand: It was beautiful. It was perfect.

Monday, December 29, 2008


**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?

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Happy Holidays

From all of us to all of you, Happy happy joy joy and all that.

Looking forward to a new year of weird dating stories.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Small town dating

I was on a date with Edgar. It was going OK, but slow. We had already done the one-on-one cup of coffee thing, which went well, and now we were trying the “going out” thing. Some live music, a couple of cocktails. Naturally, in a small town, that involves a lot of running into people you know, which I generally like. All signs pointed toward success. It should have been a fun night, but it was rough going. I felt like I was pulling, like he was pulling, like we were both trying too hard. (Except when people I knew came up to say hi, then he’d completely shut down.) I was starting to wonder.

Toward the end of the night, we ran into a couple of my friends who wanted to go to The Grange, so we four crunched through the snow to our next location. Just before we got to the door, I looked up from under the hood of my jacket and saw him. It was Heathcliff, standing outside The Grange, smoking a cigarette.

I’d dated Heathcliff for no time at all, but there seemed to be something there. Then, as happens, quite suddenly, he had apparently found a cliff and fallen off. No calls, just awkward, halfassed attempts at replies to my playful emails.
Like, “Oh, hey! How’re you doing?” Um, great? Maybe better if you called me?

So my throat tightened up and as we approached, I took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Heathcliff. How the hell are you?” Edgar had the good sense to walk inside the bar with my friends and leave me in the cold with Heathcliff.

He stuttered apologies; he made a “Look at how sweet I am and see how wide I can open up my big brown eyes?” face. He said he knew he should have called, should still, but This happened and then This happened and, man, it had been rough. Then he looked at me as if to say, “what a mistake.” I shook my head, No. But still, for a moment, I forgot how mad I’d been. And why? Why did his pathetic little hangdog face make me want to hug him make a bad joke to make him laugh? I wanted to take off my glasses, I wanted to put my face in his neck. I don't think it was the rejection itself, I'd felt this way before he disappeared. I had barely gotten to know him, but it had felt easy (yes, like a Sunday morning). Then he’d disappeared, until now.

Then my friends came back out of the bar, apparently it was packed with douchebursts. They still had Edgar in tow, and he seemed even less appealing than before. I said goodbye as Heathcliff shrugged, smiled, and went inside. And when my date suggested coming back to his place, just for a drink, I declined.

So it worked. I ran into someone who had rejected me, yet who still made me swoon. The meeting with Heathcliff had clarified just one thing.

Edgar? Not it.

Friday, December 19, 2008

We Interrupt This Weird Dating Story

Dear Spammers,

Fuck you. If you post a comment on this site with a link back to your crap ass site, it will be deleted. If you post a comment on this site that is irrelevent or off topic, you will be deleted and/or unmercifully made fun of.

Don't do it.

The Editors

Thursday, December 18, 2008

He also told me once I was the "biggest" girl he'd ever been with.

I had a boyfriend in high school who I suspected was too cute for me. That's never a good start. But he seemed to like me quite a bit, and we decided to give it a go. That's what high school's for, really. It sure as hell isn't about learning classroom nonsense.

It was always sort of weird. He had a car, I didn't. He was 18, I wasn't. I smoked, but he didn't, so he'd buy the cigarettes for me, but bitch about it all the time. He was a vegetarian who wore a leather jacket. I still hated Bob Dylan.

The funny thing was, we always wanted to like each other, we just never did that much when we were together. But we both learned big dating "Don't"s from each other.

We were out at dinner once, sitting on the patio of a local family-style pub. It was a sunny day, and our waitress came by, and as she turned away, a bright shaft of sunlight illuminated the blond mustache on her upper lip. I snorted as soon as she was out of earshot.

"What?" he asked.
"Did you see her mustache?" I said.
"Oh, I guess so. It's not really much worse than yours."

I didn't finish my dinner and refused to speak to him for a week. But I also learned about how vegetarians tend to react to catty bitches: Unfavorably.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

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."

Thursday, December 11, 2008

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.


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."

Monday, December 8, 2008

No, you're NOT invited

It's good to get to the point with your ex that when he calls you on your birthday, you pick up, and you're genuinely thankful that he called.

It's not so good when that call comes at 3 p.m., and he's half-soused and suggesting that he might show up at your birthday party.

But it is a good reminder of why he's an ex in the first place, no?

Friday, December 5, 2008

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.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

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.


"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.

Sunday, November 30, 2008


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.

Monday, November 24, 2008

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.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Craigslist Personals - You Answered It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkward pause.

“Oh, that was bad. Sorry,” he said.

I moved on.

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

Thursday, November 20, 2008

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.

Monday, November 17, 2008

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.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

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.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The First Thing I Would Do With A Time Machine

**Editors' Note: Thomas Richter sent this guest post in today. We personally don't see anything wrong with being remembered for a harmless request such as he made, but then again..."

When I was younger I got engaged to a girl I had met online. Before I squandered my savings on a ring and asked her father if I could marry his daughter, I had met her in person just five times. She lived on the other side of the country and she believed in abstinence until marriage. I didn't, but I pretended I did. We talked on the phone constantly. Both of us were still in college.

About six months before we were planning to get married, she went to study abroad in Malta. I thought, who studies abroad in fucking Malta? Why Malta of all places in the world? She was majoring in child psychology, but most of the classes she was enrolled to take in Malta were about the Knights of the Templar. We said goodbye over the phone.

On her way to Malta, she called me from a payphone at the London Heathrow Airport and said, "Listen…I've been thinking." I've noticed that when people start parroting clichéd Hollywood script lines it's because they don't know how to go about saying something difficult. But I wasn't expecting her to say anything difficult, so I interrupted her and said, "Yeah. So have I. I know you don't want to have sex before marriage—and neither do I, believe me—but can we maybe try phone sex?" All I could hear on the other end of the line was the announcement of a departing flight in the background.

"I'm going to Malta," she said after a huge pause.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I mean when you come back."

I saw a movie a while ago in which one of the main characters says authoritatively that the only reason girls go to Italy is to sleep with Italian guys. Same goes for Malta, apparently.

Even now, years later, I can't believe that happened. It's too much like a movie. I just wish it could have been more like a movie in which the last memorable thing a character says before getting dumped for the countless potential romantic encounters that an exotic island has to offer is not "Can we maybe try phone sex?"

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Ahhhahaha...I may leave awkward messages, but you got fat.

Last night, saw some guy whom I had hung out with twice, kissed once, left what I thought was a sweet message about liking kissing him (apparently he thought it was so weird he saved it to play for our mutual friends so he could make fun of me) leave the bar that I was entering.

He totally doughed out like a freshmen who just discovered beer.


Serves you right dickweed.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Bedspring Symphony

Having your mattress on the floor without a bed frame is probably the best way to combat this. For those of us who have a frame, though, things can get a bit noisy. In my experience lots of moving and packing and hauling tends to weaken the joints of the bed frame, resulting in squeaky screws.
I was finally going to the next level with B. We'd been dancing around it for awhile, but in the past we were usually so drunk by the time we made it to bed that we just had some heavy making out sessions before passing out.
This time was different.
When I first climbed into his bed that night I noticed it was a bit on the squeaky side but thought nothing of it (he hadn't had this bed frame in the past). During our very intense making out and foreplay the bed pretty much kept to itself.
It wasn't until I climbed aboard and things really got rowdy that the noise level of the bed struck me as odd. His neighbors could probably hear the rhythmic metal-on-wood squeaking across the parking lot.
It caught me off guard and threw me a bit off my game. Luckily, that lasted about a second before my focus was back on the pleasure at hand.
Still, though, can't he take a screwdriver and tighten that thing up? To heck with the noise, I felt like the bed might just crumble underneath us.
I wasn't sure if I should laugh about it or what. I didn't want to make fun of him for the bed he sleeps in, but can we really just ignore something like that? It's like the big, squeaky elephant standing in the room watching us hump.
The next night I was more prepared. I'd like to get B over for a few rounds in my quiet bed.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Jesus loves you more than you will know

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, June?”

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

“Well. I’m on my period.”

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

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

Monday, November 3, 2008

Dear Old Love

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


Here's one I liked:

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. 

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

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.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Glad You Asked POBNPO...

**Editors' Note: This anonymous guest post is actually a response to last week's Inadvertent Golden Shower. Ahh good times...**

As someone who drunkenly pissed on a cute guy a few months ago, I'm uniquely qualified to answer the question "Pissed On But Not Pissed Off" posed in Inadvertent Golden Shower. Before I do, here's what happened:

I was visiting an old friend from childhood whom I'd always found both attractive and fun to hang out with. We had hooked up once long ago and while that is a doozey of a story, it's not for this post. Only reason it's worth noting is that on this particular visit there was an undercurrent of hookup potential, albeit a small current.

I arrive shortly before noon and am promptly offered a drink. This is vacation after all so drinking before noon? Yes please.

This continues all day from my various perches on his roof watching the San Francisco bay to the bar where my sister and I shot pool during lunch back to his house for dinner and beers back to another bar to meet my sister and family friends for more drinks (including some now legal, French absinthe) back to his neighborhood to close down the local watering hole.

I was flexing my drinking prowess for sure, all in the hopes of impressing said old friend. How many drinks did I have you wonder? By my estimates about 14 or 15 over a 14 hour period. It wasn't technically binge drinking, which is defined as more than one drink per hour for more than 5 hours (or something lame), but I might agree that I'd had had enough at around 6 pm. It was the cigarette that put me over the edge. I don't remember anything after sitting on his front porch smoking except that the world was unpleasantly spinning and I needed to crash.

Next thing I remember is waking up soaking wet. In his bed. Next to him.

Mortifying does not begin to describe that feeling.

He handled it well. Made many, many thinly veiled jokes about it all the next morning. When I asked how to get back to the apartment where I was staying, his response: "Well, first you start by walking down the hall and passing the bathroom on your left. Note that it works and feel free to use it."

I appreciated his farewell the most: "Stay gangster" he yelled as I biked away into the SF traffic.

Stay gangster indeed.

So POBNPO the best way you can handle her is to make a few, well-placed jokes that only you two will understand and then NEVER TALK ABOUT IT AGAIN.

Trust me. I know.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Inadvertent Golden Shower

**Editors' Note: Holy wow. This guest post from "Pissed On But Not Pissed Off" had us crying and begging for it to stop it was too funny. Thanks POBNPO!**

I showed up with a six pack of microbrew in bottles. She handed me a can of Milwaukee's Best. I sat down to watch some mindless television and make small talk. Her friends were bringing the ping pong table up from the basement. It was obvious from the start that it was going to be one of those nights. I hadn't anticipated drinking games or drunken debauchery, but I love drinking games and drunken debauchery so fuck yeah.

We played asshole and hockey, fuck the dealer and 99. We even played one of my favorites for a round or two..."drink your beer moderately fast while laughing." It's this great game where you just drink beer and if you finish your beer, you get another one. (Everybody wins, minus that guy who starts telling everyone how sorry he is at 3 a.m. and you're all "dammit, my great game put him over the edge!? would someone put this tard in a sleeper hold and call it a night?") Anyway, I digress.

We started early so by midnight everyone was pretty smashed. No one was losing their lunch or anything, but someone was singing Bon Jovi way too loud getting all the words mixed up and I was getting fishing tips from a guy who wasn't too sure that he was even talking to anybody...you get the picture.

My quasi-girlfriend grabbed me by hand, while joe fisherman was rambling about muskies and lunkers, and started off towards her bedroom. While I didn't know that this night was going to include massive drinking and plenty of rowdiness, I did know I'd end up in a bed with this particular lady.

Short tangent: This woman and I have been seeing each other for about a month. At the time of this party we were exclusive...I think. But that's for a different story. The point is that this wasn't just a random hookup, but it was definitely taking place in the honeymoon phase so it was still extremely lustfully charged. Plus we were loaded.

We started the make out-wrestling that drunk horny people do and it escalated from there. She mentioned something regarding shedding her uterine wall and that while we did play "drink your beer moderately fast while laughing" we weren't going to play "inny-outy uppy-downy". This was fine by me. We rolled around a little more, settled into position, and drifted off to sleep. (I must include here that she doesn't usually drink beer. She's the vodka crangrapeorangefruitsugary drink type, but that night she consumed about 7 beers. keep that in mind. That plus she had had a very long week and was already exhausted. I on the other hand love beer, I might even marry it someday.) Anyway...

I woke up at about 4 am and I was freezing. I reached for more blanket only to discover that I was fully covered. I was covered by more than a blanket. I was soaking wet. A twang of panic rang in my gut. I checked myself to make sure I hadn't vomited, came to the conclusion that, in fact, I had not vomited, and turned to my partner in crime to make sure she was okay. I gently shook her awake and asked her how she was doing. She said she was fine and told me to go back to bed. What she didn't understand at the time is this: If I wake up in the middle of the night and I am soaking wet, I cannot just go back to sleep. Maybe it's just me, but excessive wetness in bed is never a good thing.

Then it hit me.

It was very faint, like an outdoor fart, but it was there. I smelled urine. I had my underwear on and it was dry. I was safe. I was also laying on a pee soaked mattress covered by a sopping blanket. Needless to say that while I was relieved it was not me who peed, I was not in love with the fact that she had relieved herself next to me. (When I say 'next to me' it is an understatement. I wouldn't have been surprised if she told me the next day that she had peed directly onto me.) I got up, grabbed a couple towels and a dry blanket, laughed a little to myself, and laid back down. It was 4 am and, although it seemed like someone dumped a gallon of milk on top of us while we slept, I was still super tired and a little drunk. I fell back asleep.

I woke up in the morning and she was gone. She had to work at 8. She had gotten a few more towels and covered me with a new blanket in the morning so I knew she knew that I knew that she knew. We haven't talked about it since.

I would like some sound advice from anyone and everyone. What do I do? The fact is that I don't really care at all. I understand these things happen, but I'm guessing she's extremely embarrassed and I don't want her to feel bad. Do I keep my mouth shut? Should I tell her in a non confrontational way that it was no big deal? Should I let some time pass and then make it a little joke? For now I'm not saying anything. We're going for a run tonight and it doesn't seem like it will be weird. Then again, last time we hung out I didn't think it was going to be weird and I ended up taking an inadvertent golden shower.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Up For Debate

One lives far, the other is local.
I am amused by one, one is amused by me.
One is trying to better himself through education, the other through entrepreneurship.
One always contacts me when he says he will, the other rarely calls when he says he will.
One is a pessimist, one is an optimist.
One is calm, the other not so much.
One can handle heavy drinking and keep his shit together (for the most part, I think), the other is a true alcoholic (who doesn't drink much these days).
I've had only good experiences with one, and the past sometimes makes me weary of the other.
I've made out with one (it was hot), and slept with the other (it was hot).

It's still too early to decide, but there may come a point in the not too distant future when I'll have to make a decision about these two. Who knows, maybe I can go on like this forever... but that's unlikely.
Whatever it is I have with either of them is not even in the realm of real or exclusive dating, but there are no clues as to where we are headed. Do I choose the first one or the second one? Or neither?
I'll probably just wait for a clear sign...or get annoyed with both of them and be done with it.

Friday, October 17, 2008

A Mystery

Here’s a mystery for you. Imagine being the guy who does this:

You’re on vacation with some pals. While you’re in a cute little mountain town, you decide to catch a show, and you find out that Indiefolk Magee’s Traveling Solo Act is in town. You decide to check it out.

In the bar, you catch the eye of a cute blonde. She smiles. You smile. Later, you notice her casually standing a few feet away from you, so you start chatting.

It’s going well, she’s a writer, you’re an architect. She has tattoos. You’re from Berlin. You buy her a beer, then another. You’re having such a good time together that you get shushed by a middle-aged twat with his name printed on his tracksuit jacket as she explains an Americanism in the lyrics that you don't understand. You both roll your eyes, and you put your hand on her knee.

At the closing number, she gets misty eyed with emotion. It’s a good song, but really? You tease her a little, she laughs, you hold hands. You decide to go across the street to get a beer.

The teasing continues, the laughter. She meets your friends, they like her. They leave the bar ahead of you. She has to work tomorrow, and you’re on the road. She can’t invite you home; her roommate, she says, is pregnant and grumpy. You have a small hotel room full of buddies. You invite her to join you on the road, tomorrow you’re going to Big Frigging Lake, but she’s on deadline. She has a story to write. She calls a cab.

You walk her outside and kiss on the sidewalk until the cab comes.

The next day, you try to meet her for lunch. It doesn’t work out. A week later, you send her an email, an e-mail filled with adorable non-native English misspellings, and a photo of you waving from a cliff overlooking Big Frigging Lake. You close your email with “Kisses, Helmut.” She replies to your email, the two of you make tentative plans to meet up at a city in the middle, just a couple of hours from each of you. You’ll let her know.

Two weeks later, your time to meet up has passed. You send this:

hey Blondie, sorry for just writing you now. but my week was truly something else: i got really busy with work and then suddenly got layed off by my company! it's funny, after coming back from my trip, I was anyway trying to reconfigure my life a little bit, searching for some new approaches, and now in general i officially have to! Anyway i am still thinking about hitting Midcity in the next few weeks, especially since I could head down there with a buddy of mine, who's thinking about being there the same time you'll be around - the weekend in two weeks from now. of course i have to see how right now everything else develops, but lets keep it in mind. And well in general it looks like i should actually have a whole lot of time to do whatever, right ...no work routine...freedom, hahaha! cheers, Helmut

She replies. She’d love to see you.

Then you fall off the face of the planet.

So, tell me, interwebs, Wha happened?

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

How To Handle Bad Pick Up Lines

I broke my arm sufficiently enough to require surgery, two 4-inch plates and 12 screws in my left forearm. The scars are significant, to say the least, and run along the inside and outside of my arm.

Shortly after the surgery I was sitting at a bar, a bit surly, drinking my usual - Jack with a Pabst back - when a man saddled up next to me. We had made passing eye contact a few minutes earlier when I was scanning the crowd for my friend. I knew it was coming from the way he sat down.

"Hey, I'm ______."


Slight pause.

"That's a sexy scar on your arm."

No fucking way. Are you kidding me? A sexy scar? Normally I might take the compliment, but at the point - just a few weeks after the uninsured, $10k surgery - I wasn't having it.

"Yeah. They just let me out of the hospital. I tried killing myself."

Then I threw the shot down the hatch and looked at him with what must have been a gnarly sneer.

Thankfully he got my point.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

When Do You Become GF?

I received a late night text last night that was very sweet and nice and said simply "Good night GF!"

GF meaning girlfriend? Hm.

I was unaware that we'd reached that status, particularly given the more then 100 miles separating our home towns. I've only very recently put my toe back in the dating pond and so perhaps I'm a teense skittish at the thought of total immersion, but I'm pretty sure you're not someone's girlfriend unless there's been the monogamy discussion, mutual feelings, etc. al. conversation. Right?

What defines a girlfriend or boyfriend?

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Puppy post

I'd been hanging out with The Puppy quite a lot. All was pretty fucking cute and sweet, a little drinkey, and quite cuddly. Lots of giggling. 

Gross, right? Yes. 

So on day three of the hang out/make out marathon we decided to watch a flick with the roommates. We ordered pizza, continued to drink beer, and put on the British version of "Stand By Me." He and I agreed on which scenes were funniest, and rewound and re-watched those, howling. And of course we watched most of the movie with our arms around each other. 

I know, I know.

The roommates, who might even have drunk more than we did over the long, long weekend, passed out on their couch as soon as their bellies were full, but The Puppy and I snugged deeper into our couch, engrossed in the movie.

As the end of the movie came near, we both got really into it. I mean, kids with British accents? They get me every time. We leaned forward in our seats: That poor boy! How could his brother do that to him?! Oh no! Watch out for the--! Ouch! Is he OK?!

Then The Puppy kissed my cheek and squeezed me. Aw. I reached over to pat his face, but I brushed my hand against my sleeve first. It was all wet.

"Dude, did you just drool on me?"
"No," he said sheepishly.
"Well what the hell …"

I turned to look at him as he wiped away the last tear.

"Oh my god. You're crying?"
"So? This movie's really good."
"You cried on me."

This was not one little tear, there was a wet spot of some substance on my sleeve.

"Puppy, you cried on me. I'm totally telling the internet."

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The long goodbye

I don't care what anyone says. It's nice to have a regular bootie call. One you're comfortable with, one you don't abuse, and who doesn't abuse you.

Ace isn't anyone I would get serious with, and I know he feels the same. One: He's voting for Barak Obama. Ew. But we put all that aside. When we see each other in a coffee shop, we say hi. We chat. And every couple of months, when the going gets rough, one of us will send a text:

"Hey, you downtown? Wanna get a drink?"

It's usually only one drink (because whoever sent the text has usually had a few. Or 13.) before we decide who's going to give who "a ride home." It's nice like that. Sometimes, in the morning, after a lazy, next-morning screw, it's almost like having a boyfriend again.

Last time, I got up and put on my robe, realized how hung over I was, and collapsed back on the bed. He put his arm around me, and we lay on my bed, chatting about life. How shitty this year's been (come on, 2009!). How he hates his job and recently got an hour long lecture from his superiors for, basically, being an asshole. I mean, how was he supposed to know that the kid who bashed his head on the doorjamb was epileptic? Why coddle the fucker? Right?

I played with the hair swirl on his temple and laughed at his impersonation of his boss. He tried to sneak a peek in my robe, I faked modesty and clutched it closed. We even chatted about the times we had each fucked someone who was married. In fairness, he didn't know she was married.

(As an aside to married folk: Don't call the single person you humped and talk to them about how guilty you feel, and how you "have no one else you can talk to about it." Find a shrink. Better jet, find a priest. The single person you fucked probably doesn't care about your guilt, or your soul.)

Then we talked about how pointless marriage is. He told me that one of his buddies says that what a guy needs to do is find the hottest girl he can, "so if you usually fuck 7s, find a 9. Then marry her." Great tip, Ace.

So we laughed a lot, softly. There were nice, snoozy silences. It was pleasant. But the morning was wearing thin after a couple of hours. I wanted to take a shower. And there were some other rumblings. Like I said, a few beers had been imbibed. More than a few. A few dozen? I'm not sure. But one thing I am sure of, those suckers were microbrews. Organic, I think. So those grumblings? They were getting uncomfortable. Catch my drift (ahem.)?

I got up. He got up. I moved to the kitchen table. He sat down. I played with my hair, mentioned how greasy it was. We laughed. This was getting ridiculous. I was about to look at my watch, but I wasn't wearing one. Finally I just stood up and walked over to the front door. I smiled and hugged him, and opened the door.

Bye, see you later, etc.

Seriously, I wonder if he heard it when the door shut behind him, before he even stepped off the stoop. I imagine him thinking, "Was that a fart?"

Yes, it was. And it felt damn good.

We're Not In Kansas Anymore

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "The Scarecrow" aka "Mista Gonads." Thanks for submitting 'Nads :) **

My senior year in high school, I left my hometown of beautiful Bend, Oregon, for a new and exciting life in San Diego, California. What a dream; I was going to a totally new school with people that wouldn’t remember the time I farted in fourth grade music class.

I had a popularity plan. Right away, I started selling cheap weed. Easy.

To round out the number of friends/customers, I got into the dramatic arts program. I was the shining star of their theatre, so when parts for “The Wizard of Oz” were selected, I was chosen to play the Scarecrow. I took the job seriously, I even stopped smoking for the play. We were an ambitions group, and incorporated several dance routines into the play. Naturally, during a rehearsal, while I was dancing with Dorothy, she fell in love with me. I think it was my beautiful eyes.

Dorothy was a very cute junior with light skin and a petite body. She had long, soft brown hair and big brown eyes that would often make me forget my dance steps. I would casually flirt with Dorothy between takes. Making her giggle was the highlight of my day. It was too easy. There was one major disabler though: Dorothy’s boyfriend, Kevin. Kevin was 6’2” and played football, basketball and baseball. He was strapped. I assumed he would be the problem.

After the play was over, we had a “cast party.” After holding off on smoking for so long, I was ready to get high. Really high. I did. I giggled a lot, I got the munchies, but other than that, my memory is fuzzy. I do clearly recall sitting between Dorothy and the Wicked Witch and telling them both stories about Oregon. These stories always make a girl, any girl, love Oregon (and me).

I knew I was going to make out with at least one of them. Of course, I decided to make out with Dorothy. To this day I regret that decision. I should have chosen the Wicked Witch (I recently heard she was modeling for several chic clothing companies in New York. Damn).

The final memory I have of that evening was of Dorothy and me making out on top of a bunk bed during the party. All the other actors and techies were snickering and whispering about how Dorothy hooked up with the Scarecrow after all.

It only took Dorothy’s boyfriend, Kevin, two days to find out about our escapade, and he was not happy. Even the baseball bat he was carrying when he confronted me looked pissed off. I still can’t remember what I said to him that convinced him to give up the idea of killing me. I may have just outrun him. Either way, with Kevin out of the picture and summer drawing near, Dorothy was able to concentrate and turn her crush into an obsession with me.

I had been living in a two bedroom apartment by the beach with three other guys. I had the couch. Dorothy would come over on occasion. Or rather, I would driver over to her house, sneak her out of her window, take her back to the apartment, and fuck her on the couch, praying that no one would walk in on us. These rendezvous continued through summer and after I had finally found a real house to live in.

Dorothy and I had been “dating” on and off for four months when I received a phone call. A male voice said: “You better stop seeing her or you’re going to get messed up!” *Click.*

I called Dorothy immediately and broke up with her. No pussy is worth my safety. I thought Dorothy would understand. However, I had neglected to compensate for Dorothy’s “bi-polar” and “semi-psychotic” behavior. Dorothy was devastated over the break up, but I still planned on never seeing her again.

About a month later when I was riding my bike home from work, I saw Dorothy and her best friend (the good witch, Glinda) walking down the street in alarming proximity to my house. I stopped to see what in the hell they were doing in my neck of the woods. Dorothy and Glinda claimed they were “looking for jobs without any success.” Funny, I had heard that they’d both become part-time strippers soon after I broke up with Dorothy. I blew it off and continued home.

Less than a week later I came home to find that someone had stolen my entire weed supply, my cash and my bong. I was enraged.

I called Dorothy claiming I knew she was the one who had stolen my whole business set up. “I’m FUCKED!” I screamed as she pleaded innocence. I owed $300 for that bag of weed and now I couldn’t even get high to make myself feel better. I started crying in disbelief “I should have made out with the wicked witch.” This time I was seriously done with Dorothy and never wanted to speak to her again.

Later, on a warm spring night after a heavy night of drinking with my roommate, I had an unexpected knock at my door. It was Dorothy and Glinda, and both drama students seemed very drunk, at least to my drunken self. Dorothy and Glinda claimed that they were at a party up the road and wanted to come hang out. I invited them in and gave them each a beer.

A group of us went into the back yard to smoke when Dorothy and Glinda started to grope me all over, not being shy with other people around. They managed to make everyone feel uncomfortable to the point where it was just the three of us remaining in the back yard. With two very cute girls sucking on my body, I started to plan my next move, but they had me out numbered and out positioned. Dorothy whispered in my ear, “Let’s go into your bedroom,” as Glinda started to tug on my left arm like the horny 18-year-old she was. Dorothy, Glinda and I landed on my bed with a thud as they started to rip off my shirt. Dorothy and Glinda bit my nipples, licked my body, and kissed each other. I really started to get into the mood when their clothing went flying across my room.

Glinda rode me in her thong while Dorothy wanted to kick it up by tying my hands to the bed. I started to get nervous. I saw this situation going bad quickly, especially when Dorothy and Glinda blindfolded me. I pulled up my eye protection up just enough so I could see what Dorothy was doing as Glinda played cowgirl on my throbbing apparatus. Then I saw Dorothy lunge into my closet where my stash of weed and money had been before I was ripped off. I sat up, hands still tied, and yelled “HEY! What are you doing in my closet?” Dorothy darted back to my bed and told me it was time to get out some condoms. Glinda removed my blindfold as Dorothy reached into her purse. I should have known there were no condoms. She swung her hand in my face and unloaded half a can of pepper spray, point blank, into my eyes.

Now I’ve had broken bones, bugs bite, and the shit kicked out of me, but there is no pain like being maced. The excruciating pain hit my nerves as I screamed. Dorothy and Glinda grabbed as many of my personal items as they could before running out of my house in nothing but their thongs.

My roommate, freaked out by two half-naked girls fleeing our house like it was on fire, heard me scream in pain and ran to my room. Of course, he turned on the light to reveal me: his drunk, naked roommate, tied to the bed with watering red eyes. I screamed “THOSE BITCHES MACED ME, AHHHHHHHHH!” I thought I was going to die.

I decided to wash my face with water; this only caused the infectious spray to flush down my chest and onto my stomach and genitals. My penis was officially on fire. I felt like my dick was going to fall off and after it fell off I was going to die. I didn’t sleep that night, I felt like I was sunburned, had rubbed sandpaper on my skin, taking off a layer or two of skin, and topped it off by taking a bath in lemon juice.

The only redeeming quality I can find of that night is this story. Also the fact that in Dorothy’s and Glinda’s panic to leave, the dumb bitches left their purses with IDs, credit cards and cash. It was apparent when I found wads of cash that they were indeed strippers. Early the next day my phone would not stop ringing. Dorothy and Glinda felt guilty and knew they’d better come up with a deal or I was going to the police. I told Dorothy and Glinda that I wanted an apology for not only assaulting me, but for my stolen property, $1000 in cash, and my bong back. In return I would give Dorothy and Glinda all their personal items. They agreed and I went to their place to finish the deal. I brought a knife just in case Dorothy and Glinda were planning to fuck with me again. On my way over to their apartment I told myself I would claim self-defense if I had to kill one or both of them.

When I got to their place they apologized, gave me the money, packed weed in my bong, and shared the story of that unbelievable night. Shortly after, we all fucked in the living room of their dank apartment. It still wasn’t worth my time though. Hot sex with two girls can’t make the memories go away. They only bring them back. I smacked Dorothy and Glinda several times during the hate fuck I released upon them.
I have not been maced since, but I’m still scared of women who carry mace. I won’t date them. At least now if a woman asks me “Why won’t you date me because I carry mace?” I won’t have to tell her this embarrassing story. This would have never happened in Kansas.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Sloppy Seconds

Ha. They're not as gross as you may think. Particularly if they're of the former male model type.

But yeah. They are seconds and model or not, making out with a guy whom your friend already made out with several weeks ago is a bit strange. Especially when you've made out with said friend.

Not that I would know. This is just what I hear ;)

Long live dating triangles!

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I've Been Engaged 3 Times In A Span Of 5 Years...

**Editors' Note: Guest submitter "A.S." sent us this post about her myriad engagements. Our advice: stop getting engaged and work on the substance abuse problem and/or dating immature guys...Jus'sayin..**

This is it. I will finally sit down and remember as clearly as possible, the whole deal with my 3 past engagements.. I'm not doing this to see where it all went wrong, I'm doing this to jog my memory, cause the rare occasions the subject does come up and I am asked about it... I'm at a loss for words! It's like I have done too many drugs, because my memory seems pretty fucked for being 25. So, this could take a while, but, this is one of those times where insomnia comes in handy.

First Engagement... I was 19, engaged to Todd. Let's see... it was doomed from the beginning. We nearly hooked up while he was still married, he said he "emotionally" blah blah blah'd me ... we were weird, I was really messed up. I think that's one thing he liked about me. I was all crazy masochistic in so many ways, and he was a charmer. Even though I hated but secretly loved it but made sure everyone knew I hated it... (flattery, that is) if that makes any sense. So, after a few months of dating through his separation then divorce to his wife, he asks me to marry him over a small order of french fries and splitting a cup of coffee at 2am in Jake's Diner. We were that broke. Yes, that's right, Jake's Diner. I mean come on! Who doesn't go into Jake's Diner and think, "wow... this place has such a romantic atmosphere, this is where I'm going to ask my girlfriend to marry me"... Just to clarify, Jake's Diner is a truck stop, and an old building on the south end of town, now it's new location isn't too bad... still doesn't seem all that "romantic"... unless, maybe I was a trucker.. We went off and on with one person supporting the other financially because somehow, the two of us couldn't seem to have a job at the same time. Then there was the random accusation of me cheating on him with a friend over the internet.. completely not true, he misunderstood the idea of me ditching my friend(who I was talking to online) when my fiance got home so that I could spend time with said fiance. And then we skip ahead through a lot of senseless fighting and arguing to the point where we break up. The end. Same old break up story like so many others I'm sure... so I'm not even going to go through it because I still have 2 other engagements to cover.

Second engagement... I was 22, Dustin.. I still sometimes have regrets about this one. We were friends first, for quite some time. Sometimes I don't know if I still love him or if it's just that care for a friend... either way, I call it the care for a friend. It's better that way. It really sucks I can't remember how he proposed... but I know it was way better than Jake's Truck stop. I do have to say we had amazing sex... sometimes I still think about it.. he was the first and actually only person I had broken anything with... we broke his bed.. still proud to say that one! I had quite a terrible drinking problem back then though, and I did actually cheat on him. I told him as soon as I got home and still, I don't think I have forgiven myself. He never did anything to harm me, he was even willing to work things out, and I felt too undeserving. And I just told him I couldn't do it. And we tried getting back together a little after that, then we started fighting and now that I look back on it. It was because I was being a drunk and really stupid. We are talking again, it took a couple years, but I never thought I would get a chance to talk to him again. We had a lot of good times while we were dating though. But the past is past... I think the main reason why I can't remember much is because I was drunk/stoned nearly 24/7... and that sucks, I wish I could remember everything.

Third engagement... I was 24... Tim... I know people say never to say you wasted any amount of time of your life as long as you learned something... and I learned a lot. But I feel like I wasted a whole year of my life thinking he was someone he really wasn't. I think the main reason why I actually proposed to him... we had been talking about marriage, so it wasn't a surprise or anything, but our one year anniversary was coming up, and it was the record for both of us, and this is how the proposal went... Me: "Wouldn't it be cool for our one year anniversary, to get married?" Him: "Uhh... huh? Really? Umm.. yeah, I guess".. or something like that, once again, I have a really horrible mostly inaccurate memory. Then a couple weeks after that he kept saying how he wanted to be the one to propose and that's what the guy is supposed to do... so one day leaving the bar drunk.. we go to a hot dog stand on the corner of the street, order, and as we're waiting and stumble into chairs, he stumbles out of it and takes my "promise" ring he got me (I had to give it to him a couple days prior so he would have a ring to propose to me with, and he wanted to surprise me when he proposed... yeah, I was going to be really surprised) and nearly falls on his knee and asks me to marry him. I quickly say yes to get him to get back in his chair and yet, all I can think is, "Really? Drunk? This is his big surprise proposal??? Ugh.." Anyway, he really wasn't ready to be married, and I call bullshit on him actually being in love with me, because the night I saw where his priorities were, was the night our roommate and I had an argument and I was crying (drunkenly as usual) in the room, Tim got home from work, asked what was wrong, I tell him the story and all he says is, "Well, you've been drinking, I'm going to go see what his side of the story is.." Then I get mad at him, I don't care if I was right or wrong, but to think, "Oh, she's mad at me, I should see if I can help.." He decides to avoid everything and play video games with the roommate. And drink the night away as usual. There were so many other things, he wanted to see if we could put an xbox on a registry and kept telling me he didn't know if he was ready to leave behind all the partying and drugs and stuff. Basically, he wasn't ready to grow up. He wanted to make sure he could still have video games. Well, obviously it didn't work out either.

So, there we are. I can't believe I did it. This is all to the best of my poor poor memory, so... yeah. But I did what I could and left out a lot cause, well, it's a lot.

Monday, September 22, 2008

The Try

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post came in from G.G, a brave lad for his honest retelling of his first foray into post-college dating. Keep it real G!**

After college I decided to jump head first into the adult dating scene. I still don’t even know what that means. All I knew was that adults couldn’t possibly be as arrogant, ignorant, drunk and horny as I was in college, so something had to change.

I spent the first few weeks in my parents’ basement being celibate emotionally and physically. I didn’t let any of my collegiate slop drag into my adult life. I wanted a fresh start, so I purified my situation, analyzed myself and re-entered the dating scene. My first interaction with a female was as follows:

Under the star speckled summer sky on a hot night in the California central plains, the soft ballads of a Northern guitarist crescendoed through the crowd and the guests drank their colorful champagnes and stepped rhythmically through tangles of family, friends, acquaintances and strangers. I smiled and allowed myself to follow the gusts of laughter and the brushes of discomfort as we all bit our tongues about the inevitable failure of the commitment we all celebrated so wistfully. The conversations were as pleasant as one could imagine:

You must be ….
How splendid!
Are you from …?
One time Brady and I …
I wish you could have seen him when …
You really shouldn’t have.

And so it went until I was introduced to the only three women at the wedding with potential for love interest. The first was a small bowling-ball type of lady with cursive eyebrows and broad, drooping jowls. Her name escapes me, but through the evening she was referred to as, “The sort of (hand gestures circumferencing waist) one, ya know?”


The second woman was beautiful, blonde, artsy and angry. In the earliest moments of conversation she mentioned her boyfriend who could not attend. The third was Jessie, tall, soft, beautiful, innocent; she smiled and asked curious questions about everyone she met. Her and I shook hands formally and I knew that things had only just begun.

During dinner I glanced towards the ladies’ table. First I was met with a fierce glare from the (hand-motion; furrowed eyebrow) one, then the girl with a boyfriend made a point of looking and looking sharply away towards nothing in particular. Finally, Jessie and I met eyes. Once quickly at first. Then again with smiles. Finally, we graduated into quick, mischievous glances every few minutes.
Eating turned into walking around aimlessly; walking around aimlessly turned into drinking more; drinking more turned into odd conversations; live music, odd conversations and aimless wandering turned into dancing. The scene developed typically and it was clear that everybody in the crowd had watched numerous wedding scenes in movies. We all knew what to do.

The young and the old. The fat and the skinny. The drunk, unhealthy-looking ex-frat guy and my little sister. All borders were crossed and everybody acted like they were having more fun than they actually were. I joined in and pretended to enjoy dancing to acoustic guitar hard rock and Jessie did the same.

Slowly, our hands eased from our sides into the air and we acted like we were in a music video. Our dancing surpassed the rhythm of the music and she said, “Why don’t you loosen up a little bit?” I took offense and danced even stranger. I moved my feet faster, pursed my lips, started with the thrillingly awkward eye contact, but no matter what I did I couldn’t fake her out. She knew I was faking it.

We gave up on dancing and walked over to the wedding cake, each took a piece and a fork and acted casual with each other. We close-talked by the cake station for a while drinking vodka out of plastic cups and acting more sober than I would at a church. The formalities broke into blank, drunken stares and empty nods, affirmations and occasionally reckless giggles. We exchanged numbers and then re-entered the crowd pretending that nothing had happened.

My family loaded into a limousine with Jessie’s two friends and we left for the hotel. Jessie stayed. Who with? I do not know. My mind whirled in suspicion and I became irritable. Her friends, drunk and angry, told tales of Jessie dancing with other guys, having lots of fun. I didn’t buy it for a second. I sent Jessie a text message asking if she would call when she gets back to the hotel. She agreed.

When she arrived, both of us got dressed casually and walked through the small town of Grass Valley in the middle of the night sharing our tales of life. She was 28, hardworking, established in a nice apartment with a good job in the heart of Portland. My situation was very different: unemployed, parents’ basement, no prospects, loser friends, drinking problem, soft-working, aimless. However, being a refreshed person in this adult dating scene I spun it something like this: transitional, learning some new lessons in the real world, nobody understands me, too smart for my own good, saving money in parents’ basement to ensure future well-being.

I explained recent epiphanies that came to me in a Portland strip club one afternoon with a close friend. We weren’t in the strip club for the nudity, I explained, we were there for the culture shock. She liked what we heard and we kissed quietly on the side of the road, laughing innocently at each other for reasons still unknown.

Back in Portland we made a date to date and I had to back up everything I told her that night in California. I met her downtown and she toured me through her apartment, which was only so-so.

“What are we going to do tonight?” she asked me excitedly. I told her my plan, which was fairly fool-proof in the winning of a heart. The plan unraveled like a song in a Disney movie.

“A dinner at the restaurant! Why? These fresh turnips here will do just fine? Wine? Of course! I brought some of my own. A movie later? Why, miss, you have been living in a movie of your own. How about we watch the movie of life, walk through the city and explore this town of ours!” I told her. She ate it up. I was being as honest as I could while maintaining the façade that I as mature.

Everything went to plan and we laughed at each others’ jokes. Nothing special happened. She tried to get me to sing her a karaoke song and I wouldn’t, but I really respected her for trying so diligently. We played some video games at an arcade and threw coins into a fountain. It all would have looked very romantic in a highlight reel.

Back at her place we sat on the couch and kissed. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do and reacted nervously by taking her shirt off. She responded strangely by doing the same. We went to her bedroom and everything became naked and she gave me the best blowjob I have ever had. I lay there for a few moments, lifeless, until I get a phone call.

It was my best friend due to be back from Alaska in just a few hours. My heart began to race with excitement. Jessie asked me what was going on. I told her, nakedly, about my friend’s arrival. It had been almost two months, which was about one month longer than our longest separation in 16 years. I got quiet, stood up, put my pants on.

“I know this is weird, but I can’t sit still. I need to go. I am really excited about seeing my friend. I had a great time and I will talk to you soon,” I told her. She looked at me confused and agreed to my leaving. She asked again if we would talk soon. I told her: Of course.

I went to my friends apartment downtown to kill the next few hours and proceeded to drink beer, smoke cigarettes, get high and fall asleep underneath somebody’s winter coat on a carpet in the spare room. The next day I woke up and went to meet my friend around 11 a.m. I never called Jessie and she never called me. Nothing.

Two months later I got a text message that read, “Want to come out to Nemo’s next Saturday night for my birthday?” I had never heard of Nemo’s, and since I had just gotten a new phone, I assumed that the unknown number and unknown location must have meant that the text was from the girl who I met the night before downtown at a bar, who was a 19-year-old stripper. The second girl I kissed in the three month period.

I wasn’t interested in her at all and responded with “I stopped by your work today. Didn’t see you there.” Jokingly.

“What? Did you see my car there or something?” she responded.
“Oh. Nevermind.” I said.
“Who do you think this is?”
“I thought it was this stripper I met lastnight. This is a new phone. Who is this?”
“It must get pretty old, Griff. I hope it’s worth it.”
“It’s not. Who is this?”
“I forgot about your thing with strip clubs. Huh.”
“Oh. I think I know who this is. Sorry.”

My go at adult romance turned into the most deceptive one-night-stand of my life, the façade crumbled and I was left with the Truth. I’m just a guy living in his parents’ basement, still unemployed, still drowning in commitment issues, who, if he had his choice of women at the bar would choose the most emotionally vacant screwball girl possible, only made possible by fake identification and lots of liquor. Immaturity prevailed, again.

Friday, September 19, 2008

To My Crazy Ex

You ruined me
for any other man.
No one
will ever make me
like you did.

When friends ask why
I stayed
so long, their eyes
widen with wonder
when I explain
your tongue worked
me over and over for hours
til cumming a fourth
time was ordinary
for us both.

Simultaneous, mutual
whenever we wanted.
Fucking sucking licking groaning biting touching tickling pounding screaming caressing throbbing moaning passionate love making sex
every time,
I would explain.

They don't ask
why I stayed
or why I don't
date anyone else

**Editors' Note: Thank you to whoever submitted this anonymous guest post! Here's to simultaneous mutual orgasms whenever you want!**

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

The Retard Game

**Editors' Note: This guest post comes in from "The Professor Herself" again. And it's a doozy, again. Thankfully she didn't marry the guy.**

The other day, I was snooping around MySpace looking at profiles of ex-boyfriends who have now deleted me from not only every social network on the internet, but from their lives as well (I can’t blame them really, from the helplessness, to cheating, to heartbreak. I’m a shit storm of non-conventional love.) I ran across one in particular who has been my longest relationship thus far. I noticed that he had a joint MySpace profile with this girl who looked similar to me, and has some similar interests that I had when I was eighteen. I also noticed that he was now married, and still living in Washington. I’m not offended that he didn’t tell me, of course, what was I going to do? Go to the wedding? No, I was almost in that situation with him and I’d like to avoid being in a wedding situation with him at all costs.

Now, I’m going to admit to being eighteen once. I spent most of my eighteen year old life in a chat room on AOL instant messenger, where I actually happened to meet somebody I was interested in who happened to live in Washington. This new “love” interest and I chatted online for a few months before he decided he wanted to come down and visit me. This was convenient because the same week he was coming down to visit, my mom was also going on vacation for a week and had asked me to watch her house, so my new love interest and I had a place to stay and perform debauchery together without getting in trouble.

Well, we personally weren’t getting into trouble, but I had no idea what trouble I had gotten myself into. The second night my new man was in town, I took his virginity, and he being either super emotional, or super Christian, or both, cried. This was not my first virginity that I had taken, so I wasn’t too consoling, but enough to make him comfortable. Three weeks later (even after cheating on him with a fuck buddy of mine) he was moving down to Bend and we were getting engaged. Before we were to be engaged though, I had to go up to Washington, not only to meet his family, but to watch him be baptized. This baptism was interesting because his father was not only the pastor of the church they belonged too, but was also the man he was to be baptized by. This baptism my boyfriend was going through meant no more sex until marriage, hence the quick engagement.

The engagement wasn’t so bad. My now fiancée lived in Meth Meadows near the parkway with a very good friend of mine, while I lived at my father’s house because my father needed someone to watch it because he was away on business trips constantly. His parents would sometimes visit and hold “bible study” at their hotel to gain my interest in their religion. Times were interesting, but the three of us, my fiancée, his roommate, and I would watch movies, experiment with drugs, and live a normal eighteen year old life.

Until I noticed that my new fiancée had some interesting habits.

He not only made the strangest broiled cheese sandwiches I’d ever seen, he also listened to too much electronica music, and he would make me play a game with him, which I later renamed “The Retard Game."

My fiancée and I both worked slightly professional jobs at the time: I had a nice office job and he worked at a front desk at a nice resort. We would have to get dressed up constantly, so when we would arrive back at his apartment after work, we would change clothing into something more comfortable in order to do things like go downtown or grab lunch. After my fiancée and I would change and be completely ready to go, keys in hand almost out the front door, he would run back to his room, lie down on the sofa, take off all his clothing, and act mentally disabled.

Now, when I say “all his clothing" I mean, completely naked. Now he’s flailing his arms and legs on the sofa screaming “dress me, dress me” so I would have to proceed in putting on everything from socks to underwear, to shoes and belt, and so forth, until he was satisfied with the outfit that I put him in. This “retard game” would last up to an hour at most on some days. No matter how many times I would say “We have to go, we’ll be late!” he wouldn’t listen. We were always late.

One day, my fiancée and I were meeting some friends’ downtown for coffee and he decided it was a good day for another extended round of the “retard game.” I was doing my normal girly banter of “No seriously, we really have to go, please, don’t do this, please!!!!” while putting on his socks and pants, when I heard giggling from behind me. I turned around and noticed the bedroom door was cracked open slightly. My fiancée was still flailing on the couch, so I left him, went to the door and opened it. The roommate had just gotten home from work, came in quietly because he noticed that my fiancée and I were home, and wanted to spy on us.

I looked at the roommate, sighed, and asked “How long have you been watching this?” He giggled some more and responded.

“You have no idea, I’ve been spying on you two playing this game for the last two weeks. I noticed it when we were all going to go to lunch together one day and thought it was the most hilarious thing ever.” I shook my head at the roommate in disappointment, and then started laughing as well. In the meantime, my fiancée still proceeded to act like a retard on the couch, but eventually realized how ridiculous he was being, and got up to go with me to meet our friends for some coffee.

Unfortunately this “retard game” alluded to my fiancées roommate spying on us more often. I not only caught the roommate spying on us during more retard game sessions, but while sleeping, and while having sex (yes, I became the “devil” and warded him away from his religion). Eventually, because I’m the “devil” his parents convinced my fiancée to move back home. The fiancée and I had discussed the idea of me moving to Washington, but I wasn’t willing to part ways with the lifestyle I was living here in Bend.

We eventually broke up, which now that I look back on it, I’d probably be living in a trailer, knocked up, smoking cigarettes, and falsely believing in Jesus, so I think that I’m better off now. I only still smoke cigarettes.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Tucker Max on Dating Is Weird

** Editors' Note: Tucker Max is an asshole. Don't worry, he's not offended by being called one. He's a self-proclaimed ass who makes quite a bit of cash by being one. Check out his site www.tuckermax.com for the full adventures. His book, blog and movie chronicle his dating exploits. Tucker gave us permission to repost one of his old blog posts about butt sex. Disclaimer: it's sexually explicit and not to be read if you're squeamish or easily offended. And if you are, what the hell are you doing reading Dating Is Weird anyway?**

TuckerMax.com - July 12, 2005
Tucker tries buttsex; hilarity does not ensue

I spent the summer between my 2nd and 3rd year of college suckling on the parental teat in South Florida. It was the absolute prime of my "do anything to get laid" phase. I was recently freed from a 4-year long-distance relationship that began in high school and I wanted nothing more than to have sex with as many girls as possible.

Most of the things I did that summer are not story-worthy; you can only tell the same, "I got drunk on Dom and fucked this hottie" story so many times before it gets annoying. That summer I experienced every random sex situation that a 20 year old can imagine: fucking on the beach, getting head from random girls in club bathrooms, sleeping with 3 different girls in a day, getting so drunk I passed out during sex, getting arrested for receiving fellatio in the pool at the Delano, blah, blah, blah...Jesus. What does it say about how fucked up my life is that I don't consider these stories to be extraordinary anymore?

Anyway, while most of my stories may not be extraordinary for me, there is one very notable exception...

I was seeing one girl, "Jaime," about twice a week. She was a fresh arrival to South Beach, having moved there 5 months ago from upstate New York as a 19 year old with a modeling contract. We met through a mutual friend who befriended her while they were shooting a TV commercial. Five weeks and lots of sex later, she thought we were dating. I knew better, but she was way too hot to bother correcting her assumption.

The ex-girlfriend of 4-years I previously spoke about was very sexually conservative. It was missionary in the dark and then straight to sleep, with maybe a blowjob on the weekends if she'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner (it was a high school relationship, I didn't know any better). After four years of this, I was ready to experience all the things I'd missed out on (when I wasn't cheating on her, of course).

Buttsex, known in the biz as "anal," was one of these unknowns, and I decided that I wanted to try it. Jaime was the perfect partner: very hot and very sweet, and more importantly, very naïve and very open to suggestion.

She was reluctant at first, not understanding why we just couldn't keep having normal sex, so I had to employ my persuasive powers:

Jaime "But...I've never done it."
Tucker "I've never done it either; it can be our thing."

Jaime "But...I don't know if I'll like it."
Tucker "You won't have to worry about getting pregnant."

Jaime "But...I like normal sex."
Tucker "Everyone's doing anal. It's the new black."

Jaime "But...I don't know...it seems weird."
Tucker "It's the preferred method in Europe. Especially with the runway models. Don't you want to do runways in Europe?"

After a few weeks of this, she finally consented. Though she agreed to let me put my penis in her small hole, she extracted a promise in return:

"OK, we can try anal sex, but I want it to be special and romantic. You have to take me out to a nice place, like The Forge or Tantra, NOT one of your parent's restaurants, and it has to be a weekend night, NOT a Monday. And you have to keep taking me out on weekends. I'm tired of being your Monday night girl."

I made reservations for the next Friday at Tantra. Aside from being insanely expensive, Tantra is famous for having grass floors. Really; they put in new sod every week. They also advertise their food as "aphrodisiac cuisine." Yes, at that point in my life, I thought these things worked.

Thanks to my father's connections, I got us a corner booth in the grass room. She was quite impressed. I ordered like it was the Last Supper. No expense was spared. Two $110 bottles of merlot, veal rack, stone crabs, the Tantra Love platter--it was lavish and decadent. I was 21, stupid, and wanted to fuck Jaime in the butt; I wasn't about to let a $400 tab get in my way.

By the time we left Tantra, this girl had doe eyes that made Bambi look like a heroin-chic CK model. She could not have been more in love with me. The entire drive back to my place she was rubbing my crotch, telling me how badly she wanted to me to fuck her, how hot I made her, etc, etc. We get back to my place and our clothes are off before we even get in the door. We collapse on the bed and start fucking. Normal vaginal sex at first, just like always.

Now, what she did not know, and what I have not told you yet, was that I had a surprise waiting for her.

[Aside: Before I tell you what the surprise was, let me make this clear: As I stand right now, 27 as of this writing, I am a bad person. At 21, I was possibly the worst person in existence. I had no regard for the feelings of others, I was narcissistic and self-absorbed to the point of psychotic delusion, and I saw other people only as a means to my happiness and not as humans worthy of respect and consideration. I have no excuse for what I did; it was wrong and I regret it. Even though I normally revel in my outlandish behavior, sometimes even I cross the line, and this is one of those situations....but of course, I'm still going to write about it.]

This was going to be my first time foraging in the ass forest, and I wanted to have a reminder of my trip, a memento I could carry with me the rest of my life...so I decided to film us.

I planned this beforehand, but I was afraid she would decline, so instead of being mature and discussing this with Jaime, I just made the executive decision to get it on camera...without telling her.

That alone is pretty bad. But instead of just setting up a hidden camera...I got my friend to hide in my closet and film it.

No really--I know that I will burn in hell. At this point, I'm just hoping that my life can serve as a warning to others.

I left my door unlocked and we arranged it so that around midnight my friend would go over to my place and wait until my car pulled in, and then run into the closet and get the camera ready. The top half of the closet door was a French shutter, so it was easy to move the slats and give him a decent camera shot through the closed door.

By the time Jaime and I got to the bed, I was so drunk I had forgotten that he was filming this, and of course she had no idea he was there. After a few minutes of standard sex, she kinda stopped and said, all serious and in her best seductive soap opera voice, "I'm ready."

I quickly flipped her over and grabbed the brand new bottle of AstroGlide I had on my bedside table.

A week prior, after Jaime consented to buttsex, I realized that I didn't have any idea how to do it. How exactly do you fuck a girl in the ass? Luckily, I had the world's best anal sex informational resource at my disposal: The gay waiter. I consulted several gay waiters who worked at one of my parents restaurants about the mechanics of buttsex, and each one recommended AstroGlide as the lubricant of choice. Much to my dismay, I learned that spitting on your dick is not enough lube for buttsex. Stupid, lying porn movies.

The other important piece of advice I remembered was from Calvin, "Make sure you use enough, because if this is her first time, she'll be especially tight, and it might hurt her. Use enough to really loosen her up and go slow until she gets used to it. Then it's smooth sailing from there."

Well, since some is good, more is better, right? At 21, this seemed logical.

I opened the cap, crammed the bottle top into her asshole, and squeezed. I probably emptied half of the 4-ounces of AstroGlide into her. I have since learned from homosexuals that a 4-ounce bottle usually lasts them about 6 months. So yeah--I overdid it.

But Tucker Max wasn't done. Oh no, after depositing enough grease in her to run a Formula One racecar, I dumped half of what remained onto my cock and balls, really wanting to lube up because I didn't want her to be uncomfortable.

Really--consider my thought process: I was going to fuck her in the butt and film it without her consent, yet I was truly concerned about her personal comfort. Sometimes the contradictions in my personality even amuse me.

Predictably, I slid in with ease. She was a little tense at first, but with an Exxon Valdez size load spilled into her poop chute, she quickly loosened up and got into it. I liked it also; it had a different feel to it. Not as good as vaginal sex, a little grainy, kinda tight, but still very nice.

Before I knew it I was fucking her like the apocalypse was imminent, burying it to the hilt with impunity. After a few minutes I was ready to come. My urgency was expressed in my tempo, and I began really jackhammering her. As the excitement got the best of me, I pulled out too far and my dick came out of her ass. I kinda scrambled to grab my dick and put it back in so I could finish off inside of her, but before I could even get a hold of it and put it back in her ass, I heard a faint "psssst" sound and felt something wet and warm hit my crotch.

It was dark in the room (I was not smart or sober enough to leave the lights on for the camera), so after I looked down it took me a few seconds to realize that my dick, balls and groin area were covered in a viscous black liquid. I stopped moving and stared at my strangely colored crotch for a good 5 seconds, completely confused, until I realized what happened:

"Did you...did you just...shit on my dick??"

I reached down to touch the liquid feces, still in complete and utter disbelief that this girl shot explosive diarrhea on my penis, when, without warning, the smell hit me.

I have a very sensitive nose, and I have never been more repulsed by a smell in my life. The combination of synthetic AstroGlide and rancid stench of raw fecal matter combined to turn my stomach, which was full of seafood, veal and wine, completely over.

I tried to hold it back. I really did everything I could to stop myself, but there are certain physical reactions that are beyond conscious control. Before I knew what I was doing, it just came out:


I vomited all over her ass. Into her crack. Into her asshole. On her ass cheeks. On the small of her back. Everywhere.

She turned her head, said, "Tucker, what are you doing?," saw me vomiting on her, screamed "Oh my God!," and immediately joined me:


Watching her throw up on my bed made me vomit even more. Her vomiting all over my bed, me vomiting on her ass, the next step was almost inevitable.

I heard the loud CRASH first, turned to see my friend break through the shutters and rip the closet door off as he, the video camera, and the door tumbled out of the closet and crashed onto the floor next to us:


The memory of the 2-second span where all three of us were vomiting at once is permanently seared into my brain. I have never heard anything like that symphony of sickness. It was like something out of the old Pink Panther movies.

I think the crowning moment was when my eyes locked with Jaime's, I saw her moment of realization and then her quick shift from shock and surprise to complete and irreparable anger. Between bouts of hurling she flipped out:


She tried to stand up, slipped on the huge puddle of backflow AstroGlide on the bed, and fell into both my pile and her pile of vomit, covering her body and hair in vomit, shit and anal lubricant. She flailed on the bed for a second, grabbed the top sheet, wrapped it around her, and started running out of my place. Still naked and retching, my dick covered in shit and oil, I followed her as far as my front door.

The last contact I ever had with her is the image I witnessed of her in a dead sprint, a shit, vomit and grease stained sheet stuck to her body, running from my apartment.


The camera we used was one of those old fragile ones that filmed onto a VHS tape, and when he crashed out of the closet, the tape recorder and tape broke. It didn't occur to us at that the tape records the images magnetically, and we could take the actual tape itself and get someone to put it in another holster until after we had thrown it out. I know it seems stupid now, and believe me I kick myself about it everyday, but you should have seen the apartment afterwards--the tape was not a high priority. AstroGlide, shit and vomit covered EVERYTHING.

I had to rent one of those steam cleaners, buy a new mattress, and I STILL lost my deposit. It was impossible to get the smell out. The next month was like living in a sewer. Every girl I brought back to my place after that refused to stay there, and some even refused to sleep with me anywhere because of how my place smelled.

What I never found out, and I still want to know, is how the girl got home. I never heard from her again, and the mutual friend who introduced us called her but didn't get her calls returned. I never heard anything about her or from her again, even though she left her clothes and ID at my place (she wore a tight dress out that night, and didn't bring a purse or any money with her).

Can you picture that scene? What did she do, hop in taxi? Wave down a passing car? Get on the bus? She lived at least 30 miles away, there is no way she walked home. It perplexes me to this day.

I'm hoping she reads this. Maybe then I'll find out how she got home.