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!
Monday, September 29, 2008
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.
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?”
“AHHH”
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.
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?”
“AHHH”
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
cum
like you did.
When friends ask why
I stayed
so long, their eyes
widen with wonder
envy
when I explain
your tongue worked
me over and over for hours
til cumming a fourth
time was ordinary
for us both.
Simultaneous, mutual
orgasms
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
anymore.
**Editors' Note: Thank you to whoever submitted this anonymous guest post! Here's to simultaneous mutual orgasms whenever you want!**
for any other man.
No one
will ever make me
cum
like you did.
When friends ask why
I stayed
so long, their eyes
widen with wonder
envy
when I explain
your tongue worked
me over and over for hours
til cumming a fourth
time was ordinary
for us both.
Simultaneous, mutual
orgasms
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
anymore.
**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.
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"OH MY GOD--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--YOU FILMED THIS, YOU ASSHOLE-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-- HOW COULD YOU-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--OH MY GOD-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I LET YOU FUCK ME IN THE ASS--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH."
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.
POST-SCRIPT:
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.
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH"
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:
"OH MY GOD--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--YOU FILMED THIS, YOU ASSHOLE-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH-- HOW COULD YOU-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--OH MY GOD-- BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH--I LET YOU FUCK ME IN THE ASS--BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH."
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.
POST-SCRIPT:
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Sometimes you just hit one out of the park.
The army guy, the trustafarian and the former male model.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
NOT Dating Is Weird
I’ve been single for some time now. We’re talking years. It all started when I fell off the deep end at college and decided that until I got my life in order, I wasn’t going to worry about anybody else.
For the most part it has worked. I get horny, yes, but I can (mostly) handle that myself.
Mentally this is working for me. I’m much more stable inside my head now than I was when I was slutting around all over campus (sometimes off campus). To clarify, I don’t sleep with 4 guys and think I’m a slut. I’m not a slut. But I’ve fucked a hell of a lot of people.
There were many fun moments, of course, but I’m still not sure what I was trying to get out of it, aside from the generic “looking for love in all the wrong places” kind of companionship.Things aren’t hunky dory inside my head now, but I no longer look for any kind of…reassurance, if you will...from having the opposite sex between my legs in one fashion or another.
I’ve hit a wall, though. It’s been so long since I have done any kind of “traditional” dating that I feel like I've forgotten how. I don’t even spend that much time with the opposite sex in general, a complete 180 from my pre-slutting days. The thought of opening up to a person at that level is daunting.
People around me date. Some more than others, and all in different fashions. But while I was not dating, several of the people around me were dating. Then getting serious. Moving in together. Getting engaged. Now they’re married and have a kid.
I truly don’t feel like I’m in a race, but my word, how did I get so far behind? It’s like I’m paralyzed at the idea of even putting myself out there enough to ask a guy out. I don’t flirt in bars. I don’t even really go to bars. I haven’t tried dating online (save one close call with a craigslist dude, but I let my friend handle that one). I work in an environment that is damn close to being exclusively female. I’m totally surrounded by estrogen all the time!
True, I’ve got my life in order. I can take care of myself now, for the most part. But this dating thing…or not dating…it really is weird. For me it’s just weird because it feels like the unknown. Maybe I'm just taking the whole thing too seriously.
For the most part it has worked. I get horny, yes, but I can (mostly) handle that myself.
Mentally this is working for me. I’m much more stable inside my head now than I was when I was slutting around all over campus (sometimes off campus). To clarify, I don’t sleep with 4 guys and think I’m a slut. I’m not a slut. But I’ve fucked a hell of a lot of people.
There were many fun moments, of course, but I’m still not sure what I was trying to get out of it, aside from the generic “looking for love in all the wrong places” kind of companionship.Things aren’t hunky dory inside my head now, but I no longer look for any kind of…reassurance, if you will...from having the opposite sex between my legs in one fashion or another.
I’ve hit a wall, though. It’s been so long since I have done any kind of “traditional” dating that I feel like I've forgotten how. I don’t even spend that much time with the opposite sex in general, a complete 180 from my pre-slutting days. The thought of opening up to a person at that level is daunting.
People around me date. Some more than others, and all in different fashions. But while I was not dating, several of the people around me were dating. Then getting serious. Moving in together. Getting engaged. Now they’re married and have a kid.
I truly don’t feel like I’m in a race, but my word, how did I get so far behind? It’s like I’m paralyzed at the idea of even putting myself out there enough to ask a guy out. I don’t flirt in bars. I don’t even really go to bars. I haven’t tried dating online (save one close call with a craigslist dude, but I let my friend handle that one). I work in an environment that is damn close to being exclusively female. I’m totally surrounded by estrogen all the time!
True, I’ve got my life in order. I can take care of myself now, for the most part. But this dating thing…or not dating…it really is weird. For me it’s just weird because it feels like the unknown. Maybe I'm just taking the whole thing too seriously.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Dating In The Casbah
**Editors' Note: This guest post came to us all the way from the Middle East from a friend who'd prefer to be known as Saddam Marmapuke. Thanks Saddam! Good luck with the new wife!**
I was born in the US. My mother is American, but my father is from a small Middle Eastern country, which I'll refer to here as Arabistan so as not to sully its international reputation—a crime for which the country's constitution allows capital punishment. When I was young, my parents divorced and it was settled that my life would take place in the US. I visit my dad's country almost every year, but I have always strongly agreed with my parents' decision to keep me in the US, mostly because I think Arabistan is a socially backward shit hole.
I like visiting my family and friends in Arabistan and I enjoy getting out of the States every so often, but I was never willing to stay there for an extended period of time until last year when I graduated from college and moved there to work and settle in for a while with the hope that I would learn to love my father's unfortunate little country.
Almost immediately upon my arrival in the nation's capital, my stepmother, her sisters, her mother, my paternal aunts and every other female member of my family and extended family launched their campaign to get me married to a "nice girl from the village," which translates more directly as a first cousin (preferably), highly trained in cooking, cleaning, and rabbit-like reproduction. It was the first of many identical conversations with my female family members and I learned to laugh and divert their probing questions and outrageous suggestions with my own questions ("What is your favorite color?") and suggestions ("I really think you should see a doctor about your multiple sclerosis.")
Eventually, I found a job disseminating the most vulgar propaganda for the corrupt, dictatorial government, I started smoking heavily, I spent hundreds of dollars every month buying large quantities of Qat (an intensely stimulating drug that Arabistanis use almost every day), and I found myself a non-Arabistani girlfriend. My father's family was thrilled that I had so quickly adapted in Arabistan, but they were irate about the girl. Addicted to drugs? So are we! Coughing your tar-filled lungs out? Join the chorus! Aiding and abetting the criminal dictator? Our love for him is pure! But dating…and dating a non-Arabistani girl? You are spitting in our faces and stomping on our hearts.
"Listen," my father said to me one day while we sat alone digesting lunch. "I know you have a girlfriend, and I'm happy for you. But people here don't do that—they don't date like you do in America—and it's causing a major stir. People are talking about it and you know what that means." He explained that his wife had reported rumors circulating in some female circles of the city that my girlfriend was either a Zionist spy (a totally irrational, but major fear in the national psyche) or a con artist trying to steal my family's savings.
"Fucking retards," I said. "Goddamned hooded beasts."
"You're the one who's been acting retarded," he shot back, surprising me.
"Excuse me? By dating a girl?"
"You're living in one of the most conservative cultures on the planet. If you're going to have a girlfriend, you need to do it secretly."
For an hour he tried to tutor me in the art of having an illicit relationship, a talent he claims to have gained as a young man. I listened attentively, imagining trysts in dark alleys, trying to picture myself sneaking into windows and wearing disguises.
Eventually, he said, "Or there's the other way…."
"What's that?" I asked.
"You could marry her."
I met this girl through mutual friends about four years earlier while I was visiting Arabistan. Every time I returned to the country we would occasionally see each other at gatherings and have friendly, but brief conversations. It had only developed into a sleepover relationship about a month prior to my father's suggestion that I marry her. I liked her a lot. I thought I was falling in love with her, actually. But I was not about to marry anyone after one month, and the idea of societal pressure being the driving force behind a marriage proposal disturbed me. I was sure she wouldn't be interested in going native to that extent either.
"It's not like she's knocked up," I said. But I understood that there were two options and that pregnancy wasn't the issue at hand. It was the general idea of premarital relations that Arabistani society feared, despised, and strictly guarded against. Quickly, I scrambled to promise my dad that I would play the game of secrets, that I didn't want to cause anyone any trouble, but that I'm not used to this kind of thing and it may take a few days to develop a strategy. He'd have to bear with me a little.
The next day while I was at work I got the first text message. "CNGRTS ON UR WDDING, CUZ!!!!!!" I thought my cousin had mistakenly sent it to me, so I ignored it, but several calls and text messages from family members followed throughout the day. Apparently, my father didn't believe my assurances and his lack of faith in my ability to secretly date a woman had led him to choose plan B on my behalf and on behalf of my girlfriend/wife. He had told everyone—his friends, our family, his wife's family, and all the neighbors—that I had secretly married my foreign girlfriend, who he could now confirm is not and has never been a spy, a con artist, or a Zionist. So, I was married to a girl who didn't know she was my wife.
Breaking the news to her was not as difficult as I had expected. After a period of silence and introspection while I stared at her, anticipating panic and anger, she said, "So does this mean we'll be living together?"
"I think it means we have to live together," I said.
She paused.
"Do you know how to cook?" she asked.
"Sort of," I said.
"Do you know how to make the bed?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you know how to do laundry and iron?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then I have no problem with this new, bizarre, arrangement."
I was born in the US. My mother is American, but my father is from a small Middle Eastern country, which I'll refer to here as Arabistan so as not to sully its international reputation—a crime for which the country's constitution allows capital punishment. When I was young, my parents divorced and it was settled that my life would take place in the US. I visit my dad's country almost every year, but I have always strongly agreed with my parents' decision to keep me in the US, mostly because I think Arabistan is a socially backward shit hole.
I like visiting my family and friends in Arabistan and I enjoy getting out of the States every so often, but I was never willing to stay there for an extended period of time until last year when I graduated from college and moved there to work and settle in for a while with the hope that I would learn to love my father's unfortunate little country.
Almost immediately upon my arrival in the nation's capital, my stepmother, her sisters, her mother, my paternal aunts and every other female member of my family and extended family launched their campaign to get me married to a "nice girl from the village," which translates more directly as a first cousin (preferably), highly trained in cooking, cleaning, and rabbit-like reproduction. It was the first of many identical conversations with my female family members and I learned to laugh and divert their probing questions and outrageous suggestions with my own questions ("What is your favorite color?") and suggestions ("I really think you should see a doctor about your multiple sclerosis.")
Eventually, I found a job disseminating the most vulgar propaganda for the corrupt, dictatorial government, I started smoking heavily, I spent hundreds of dollars every month buying large quantities of Qat (an intensely stimulating drug that Arabistanis use almost every day), and I found myself a non-Arabistani girlfriend. My father's family was thrilled that I had so quickly adapted in Arabistan, but they were irate about the girl. Addicted to drugs? So are we! Coughing your tar-filled lungs out? Join the chorus! Aiding and abetting the criminal dictator? Our love for him is pure! But dating…and dating a non-Arabistani girl? You are spitting in our faces and stomping on our hearts.
"Listen," my father said to me one day while we sat alone digesting lunch. "I know you have a girlfriend, and I'm happy for you. But people here don't do that—they don't date like you do in America—and it's causing a major stir. People are talking about it and you know what that means." He explained that his wife had reported rumors circulating in some female circles of the city that my girlfriend was either a Zionist spy (a totally irrational, but major fear in the national psyche) or a con artist trying to steal my family's savings.
"Fucking retards," I said. "Goddamned hooded beasts."
"You're the one who's been acting retarded," he shot back, surprising me.
"Excuse me? By dating a girl?"
"You're living in one of the most conservative cultures on the planet. If you're going to have a girlfriend, you need to do it secretly."
For an hour he tried to tutor me in the art of having an illicit relationship, a talent he claims to have gained as a young man. I listened attentively, imagining trysts in dark alleys, trying to picture myself sneaking into windows and wearing disguises.
Eventually, he said, "Or there's the other way…."
"What's that?" I asked.
"You could marry her."
I met this girl through mutual friends about four years earlier while I was visiting Arabistan. Every time I returned to the country we would occasionally see each other at gatherings and have friendly, but brief conversations. It had only developed into a sleepover relationship about a month prior to my father's suggestion that I marry her. I liked her a lot. I thought I was falling in love with her, actually. But I was not about to marry anyone after one month, and the idea of societal pressure being the driving force behind a marriage proposal disturbed me. I was sure she wouldn't be interested in going native to that extent either.
"It's not like she's knocked up," I said. But I understood that there were two options and that pregnancy wasn't the issue at hand. It was the general idea of premarital relations that Arabistani society feared, despised, and strictly guarded against. Quickly, I scrambled to promise my dad that I would play the game of secrets, that I didn't want to cause anyone any trouble, but that I'm not used to this kind of thing and it may take a few days to develop a strategy. He'd have to bear with me a little.
The next day while I was at work I got the first text message. "CNGRTS ON UR WDDING, CUZ!!!!!!" I thought my cousin had mistakenly sent it to me, so I ignored it, but several calls and text messages from family members followed throughout the day. Apparently, my father didn't believe my assurances and his lack of faith in my ability to secretly date a woman had led him to choose plan B on my behalf and on behalf of my girlfriend/wife. He had told everyone—his friends, our family, his wife's family, and all the neighbors—that I had secretly married my foreign girlfriend, who he could now confirm is not and has never been a spy, a con artist, or a Zionist. So, I was married to a girl who didn't know she was my wife.
Breaking the news to her was not as difficult as I had expected. After a period of silence and introspection while I stared at her, anticipating panic and anger, she said, "So does this mean we'll be living together?"
"I think it means we have to live together," I said.
She paused.
"Do you know how to cook?" she asked.
"Sort of," I said.
"Do you know how to make the bed?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Do you know how to do laundry and iron?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then I have no problem with this new, bizarre, arrangement."
Friday, September 5, 2008
And I Thought Dating Was Tough
Apparently John McCain called his wife a cunt back in the early 90s during a press conference...
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Worst Pickup Line Ever
I should have known the pickup lines would be as geeky as the attendees of the work conference I went to a few weeks ago, but wow.
Some background: I work online doing Search Engine Optimization and went to a conference about search engines. Everyone there either worked for an engine or worked for clients trying to perform better in said engines' results. (Read: lots of dorky people talking in computer jargon). Good times.
Google threw an enormous party at their headquarters one night and it was one of the most spectacular displays of neon I've ever seen. I've been to Burning Man and still was impressed at Google's throw down of glow sticks and flashy things. While standing off to the side of dance floor, snickering at the increasingly drunken and emboldened displays of dancing, a man approached.
"Hey. You look lonely."
"Why? Because I'm choosing to stand by myself?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever prefered your own company to standing around bullshiting with strangers?"
"I guess, yeah. Is that your not so subtle way of telling me to get lost?"
"Haven't decided yet."
He laughed and said something to the effect that I was intimidating. I said something to the effect that it's a good bullshit filtering mechanism and the conversation actually improved from there. We chatted for a few minutes, mostly making fun of people's dancing, and laughed quite a bit.
I smelled it coming though.
The song ended, the party was clearly winding down and I was looking for my co-workers to start heading back to the hotel.
"Hey, do you have a business card?"
"Uh yeah but I forgot them at home."
"Bullshit. You just don't want to give it to me."
"No really. I left them in Oregon."
"Well, can I have your number?"
"I don't give my number out to guys I've just met. Safety thing. But you can have my email."
He pulled out his card and I wrote my work email down.
"What? No personal email?"
"Yes. I have several personal email accounts."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"Man, you're a tough cookie."
"Congratulations. You're officially the second person to tell me that, after my grandmother when I was 6 and skinned my knee but didn't cry."
Awkward silence. I began regretting being so stand-offish, but quickly stopped when he dropped the line.
"Well, I can get your web site in the number one result on page one of organic Google results for any keyword if you ever want. Give me a call, here's my card."
Dumbfounded, I let the awkward silence return.
"Well, I can beat you in a foot race around the block right now. Probably won't call you after."
Some background: I work online doing Search Engine Optimization and went to a conference about search engines. Everyone there either worked for an engine or worked for clients trying to perform better in said engines' results. (Read: lots of dorky people talking in computer jargon). Good times.
Google threw an enormous party at their headquarters one night and it was one of the most spectacular displays of neon I've ever seen. I've been to Burning Man and still was impressed at Google's throw down of glow sticks and flashy things. While standing off to the side of dance floor, snickering at the increasingly drunken and emboldened displays of dancing, a man approached.
"Hey. You look lonely."
"Why? Because I'm choosing to stand by myself?"
"Yeah."
"Have you ever prefered your own company to standing around bullshiting with strangers?"
"I guess, yeah. Is that your not so subtle way of telling me to get lost?"
"Haven't decided yet."
He laughed and said something to the effect that I was intimidating. I said something to the effect that it's a good bullshit filtering mechanism and the conversation actually improved from there. We chatted for a few minutes, mostly making fun of people's dancing, and laughed quite a bit.
I smelled it coming though.
The song ended, the party was clearly winding down and I was looking for my co-workers to start heading back to the hotel.
"Hey, do you have a business card?"
"Uh yeah but I forgot them at home."
"Bullshit. You just don't want to give it to me."
"No really. I left them in Oregon."
"Well, can I have your number?"
"I don't give my number out to guys I've just met. Safety thing. But you can have my email."
He pulled out his card and I wrote my work email down.
"What? No personal email?"
"Yes. I have several personal email accounts."
"Well?"
"Well?"
"Man, you're a tough cookie."
"Congratulations. You're officially the second person to tell me that, after my grandmother when I was 6 and skinned my knee but didn't cry."
Awkward silence. I began regretting being so stand-offish, but quickly stopped when he dropped the line.
"Well, I can get your web site in the number one result on page one of organic Google results for any keyword if you ever want. Give me a call, here's my card."
Dumbfounded, I let the awkward silence return.
"Well, I can beat you in a foot race around the block right now. Probably won't call you after."
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