Sunday, November 30, 2008


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

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

Monday, November 24, 2008

I got some money ‘cause I just got paid

It was another Friday night, and I had every intention of being a good girl. But I was not staying home alone—not after that asshole neglected to call me. Again.

So I prettied up and took my little coup out for a spin. I parked her carefully and began my strut. Before I’d even made it down the block, I ran into an old buddy for a stop-n-chat, how are you, how’s the family, where ever did you get that leather jacket, etc.

Then I stopped in at some schmancy event, took my free munchies and worked the room for a bit. Snore. So I figured there had to be some live music happening at the local Sip’n’Shake. But winter's coming, kiddies, and mama needs to keep warm. And this particular night was so blasted cold out that I couldn’t even walk all the way to S&S (I never drink and drive) without stopping off somewhere to warm myself.

I found myself walking past a bar next to a sushi place downtown that serves a decent drink. Sometimes there’s even a DJ. This night, there wasn’t, and the place was kind of slow. I was a bit disappointed, but really wanted a Bombay sapphire ’tini. So I ponied up at an empty seat at the corner bar. In front of the empty seat next to me was a nearly-full beer. Something micro.

Just as the bartender set down the gorgeous ‘tini, a young man with a striped shirt, a Joaquin Phoenix-ish face (minus the cleft palate scar) and a baseball cap sat down beside me, grinned, and said in a thick southern accent, “Well hello.”

“Well, hello,” I thought, “So you’re what I’m doing tonight.”

I didn’t really miss the asshole’s phone call after that.

Friday, November 21, 2008

Craigslist Personals - You Answered It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkward pause.

“Oh, that was bad. Sorry,” he said.

I moved on.

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

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Dating Is Weird Stickers

So we just ordered 1500 "" stickers. They're about 5" x 1.25" and look great on the wall of a bathroom stall. Bars stand out as choice candidates for these new stickers, but really anywhere you see stickers (back of a lift chair, your car's bumper, the local wall where everyone plasters flyers, etc.) works. They're white font on black background and simple.

Want some to put up?

Email us at with your address. We'll mail you some in the next few weeks.

Happy dating.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Some people just don't get it.

This was more than 8 years ago, so some of the details of the end of our time together are foggy. I was young, and there's a good chance that I didn't handle it in a very adult fashion, although I'm sure I made myself clear...we were done.

What happened afterword is crystal clear, though.

My first inkling that this guy was not giving up that easy came the night before graduation. He called and wanted me to drive an hour and a half in the middle of the night to come hang out with him at his parent's place (They were gone. 2 guesses what he wanted).

"Ummm, no, I have to graduate tomorrow."

This didn't seem to faze him (maybe I should have said, "You know, for a big guy you have a small penis."), but I got off the phone and (duh) didn't go see him.

A few weeks later he called me to hang out. I was 200 miles from home, busy for the week, and unavailable.

Then came the clincher. While I was out of town, I met up with my sister near where we were staying.

"You're not going to believe who was just here."

I had no idea. When she told me it was Big Ben my heart nearly came out of my mouth.

A short time later I returned to my car to find a note from him on my windshield asking me to call him (how I managed to not run into him myself I'll never know, but I can't tell you how relieved I was to not have to see this guy). I couldn't believe he found me. Apparently he had up and decided to visit the area and camp with some of his friends... I never knew him to be so spontaneous.

I called, though, and reiterated that I was not in a position to see him. I thought that would be the last of it.

A few months later I had moved to another state. Big Ben contacted me by e mail, asking why I had cooled to him.

"Because you act like a stalker, you know, showing up uninvited and unannounced when I'm 200 miles from home. That's something a stalker does."

That finally put an end to it. I will not think of him fondly.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

The Over-share

Dating-related things your big sister might not want to hear about:

The size of your boyfriend’s penis. Especially if he’s a disgusting loser-asshole.

How great of head your boyfriend gives. Especially if, in addition to being a disgusting loser-asshole, he is the dickwad, unemployed father of your beautiful daughter.

The time when you and your loser boyfriend were on a break, and you spent the weekend at mom and dad’s, using their computer after they went to bed to find guys on Craigslist, walk to the bar to meet them, hump them (god knows where, thanks for leaving out that detail), and then walk back to mom and dad’s house to go to bed before they got up.

You and your disgusting loser-asshole boyfriend’s forays into anal and how much it hurt. Especially if your loser-asshole boyfriend has long, greasy hair and a thin goatee. And he shows up to Christmas in sweatpants two sizes too big with holes in the ass.

The time you gave head to my best friend’s brother. I totally had the hots for him.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

The First Thing I Would Do With A Time Machine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

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

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

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


Serves you right dickweed.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Bedspring Symphony

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

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Jesus loves you more than you will know

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that, June?”

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

“Well. I’m on my period.”

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

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

Monday, November 3, 2008

Dear Old Love

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

Here's one I liked:

You left me for someone who doesn't know who Andy Warhol is.

I'd bet DIW readers could do better, though, right? C'mon. Show us what you got.