More on SNAGS

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

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

Glad You Asked POBNPO...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mortifying does not begin to describe that feeling.

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

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

Stay gangster indeed.

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

Trust me. I know.

Inadvertent Golden Shower

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it hit me.

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

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

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

Up For Debate

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

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

A Mystery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She replies. She’d love to see you.

Then you fall off the face of the planet.

So, tell me, interwebs, Wha happened?

How To Handle Bad Pick Up Lines

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

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

"Hey, I'm ______."

"Hi."

Slight pause.

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

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

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

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

Thankfully he got my point.

When Do You Become GF?

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

GF meaning girlfriend? Hm.

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

What defines a girlfriend or boyfriend?

The Puppy post

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

Gross, right? Yes. 

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

I know, I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The long goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bye, see you later, etc.

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

Yes, it was. And it felt damn good.

We're Not In Kansas Anymore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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