Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Year end reminiscence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, December 29, 2008


**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from "Running On Thin Ice," which is an apt name given that after this story happened, ROTI ran home in a snow storm rather than wait around with the woman and her boyfriend for ROTI's ride home. We only know this because we picked him up on the side of road..**

That title sounds like this story is going in a different direction than it really is.

I have something of a sordid, lascivious history with this woman. We worked together at the same restaurant for about a year and worked together well. There were instances where the place was short-staffed and she and I had much more responsibility than anyone making $3 an hour + tips should ever have, but we made it happen and meshed well as drinking buddies, co-workers, and eventually fuck buddies. Problem: she was on her third husband and has three kids to boot. I am a free-wheeling kid fresh out of college at this point with zero job prospects aside from that which a bachelor's in psych can afford (read: waiting tables, digging retaining walls, etc.). She is much more attractive than she gives herself credit for, and that has always been a turn-on for me, as it complements my joking self-aggrandizement well. Still, I don't wish to be Homewrecker Miles as I have been down that road and have scars and concussed memories to prove it.

That honorable intention lasted maybe a month and we were between the sheets. Things fall apart, and between me moving across the country and her other life we lost touch for a while. Fast forward to more recent times and we are back in touch... promising to connect and drink ourselves silly as a late birthday celebration for her.

I show up at the bar we left when we first got together all those years ago, and there she is, looking fantastic and with a 6'4" boyfriend with arms as big as my thighs in tow. He also happens to be much better at pool than me, which doesn't happen everyday, in addition to being an extremely well-paid engi-nerd. Sigh. Tequila flows freely with Mr. Buff picking up I don't know how many rounds in a row, and all of a sudden Miss Thing and I are talking about what it was like exploring each others' nether regions back in the day. She is sneaking this conversation in when Mr. Buff isn't close enough to hear, but she is getting into my personal space bubble and I don't think Mr. Buff was too excited about it. Thankfully there were a bunch of their friends around to distract him while Miss Thing and I step outside. Then we're kissing. Then we're getting into HIS truck. Then...

It's as good as I remember, even if I am sneaking looks over her shoulder at the bar door waiting to see if Mr. Buff is running in my direction with a pool cue / tire iron / gun. He is not. This is pretty hot, even if my life could be in danger. I wonder briefly if he will smell the sex in his truck.

We hurry back inside and nobody seems to be the wiser. Miss Thing is even audacious enough to go up to her man whom I just cuckolded and give him a kiss. Scandalous. But who am I to talk?

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Happy Holidays

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

Looking forward to a new year of weird dating stories.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Small town dating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edgar? Not it.

Friday, December 19, 2008

We Interrupt This Weird Dating Story

Dear Spammers,

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

Don't do it.

The Editors

Thursday, December 18, 2008

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Hooking up

From an interesting story in the New York Times. After defining what hooking up is, the author writes:

"It turns out that everything is the opposite of what I remember. Under the old model, you dated a few times and, if you really liked the person, you might consider having sex. Under the new model, you hook up a few times and, if you really like the person, you might consider going on a date."

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Bros & Hoes

**Editors' Note: This guest post came in from a guy asking to be called "Wingman," which seemed apt given his backstage role in this story."

We've all heard the old saying, "Bros before hoes." For me it's gospel. I'd do anything for my guys way before I would do something comparable for a girlfriend or a potential fuck. After a few nasty experiences with friends' ex-girlfriends, girlfriends of exes, friends and my ex-girlfriends...you get the point. What guy hasn't been burned in the past by not following this one, simple rule to dating?

That's why when last week I had the opportunity to help a bro get a hoe, I was stoked. There's gotta be extra karama points for that, right?

He had managed to lay the hot manager from Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago after meeting her out at the bar. There was enough alcohol involved that although he remembered it being good ("fucking best piece I've had dude!" he said) he didn't remember her name.


Even more classic was calling me 15 minutes before their "first date" in a panic.

"Shit! I don't know her name! I mean I think it's Beth, but I'm not 100% positive. What if I call her the wrong name?! Shit shit shit!"

"Calm down," I said. "We can figure it out. I'll call the store and ask whoever answers the name of the manager."

"I fucking love you dude."

We hung up and I called B & N.

"Hi. I was just in there talking to the female manager. I told her I'd bring something back, but I forget her name. What is it?"

"Oh, you mean Beth. She..."

I didn't even wait to hear what the clerk was going to say.

"Sweet. Thanks dude."

My bro got laid again and didn't hesitate to call out her name during it. I made up a new law for our friends: "Help our bros get hoes."

Monday, December 8, 2008

No, you're NOT invited

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

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

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

Friday, December 5, 2008

Excuse Me, Do I Know You?

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes from "Sweet Sickness." Keep 'em coming folks!**

I had one of those "I'm totally telling the internet on you" moments. OH Aaron… he was a fun one. Younger than I usually consider doing … anything with, but he had one of those baby faces that I just melted for. Even stranger, he's blond, and I don't normally go for blonds. Once again, just one look at the baby face with the puppy dog eyes.. you would melt too.

There's his introduction. Now here's the story.

A couple years back, I had some friends that had a constant party house. Pretty much when we weren't partying, we were getting ready to, or getting rid of hangovers in preparation for the next party... You get the idea. One of THOSE houses. Well Aaron and I met through being friends of friends of friends. I actually knew the people who lived there, and he appeared at a party playing with the "band" aka the house people blowing and banging and strumming their instruments.

He played the sax. I love sax. Yes, sAx. Anyway, they all played and we had an instant drunken lust for each other. It's like "love at first sight" but it's actually "drunken-horniness-you're-cute-I'd-totally-fuck-you" at first sight. We went a couple parties just flirting, magically appearing in the same conversations with other people, etc. Then one night, we all ended up too drunk for anyone to safely leave the house. Everyone crashed wherever there was floor.

We, somehow ended up on the same pull out couch bed. And well, come on, two drunk kids sleeping next to each other.. it's rare you actually sleep. Especially with the whole attraction thing. So, my friend still doesn't know this, I'm sure she'd be kind of pissed if she knew, we ended up getting rid of that sexual tension. It was bound to happen.

I am one of those chicks where it's usually really hard for me to orgasm. Long story. I'm just a difficult orgasmer...but no worries. I still enjoy myself, and it's always fun when the guy takes it on as a challenge. I should give out medals to the ones that did… hmm… Ok, anyway, back to the story. So, he soon discovered this, and I tried explaining to him how it's not just him, it really isn't.

After the party and stuff, we exchanged numbers and I had him over at my place a few times. He made promises of dedicating a night to making me orgasm and also to take me to a movie. I thought it was cute he was trying to be "gentleman" like after he had already gotten into my pants.

Anyway, a lot of things happened that aren't really important to this story. He moved to Eugene for a while. A year or so later, I ran into him at a Safeway (the Forum) and he was all, "You know, I still owe you a movie and an orgasm," which I thought was hilarious that he remembered. We exchanged our new numbers and promised to call, but never did.

About another year or so later, I run into him again. This time, unless he was being shy, I don't think he remembered how he knew me. I'd love to see it hit him randomly somewhere. Apparently we're both regulars at one of my favorite places. He still has the baby face to melt for, but I have enough stupid little crushes.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Dating Married Men

Dating a married man is a bad idea. (Yes yes, I know. Duh. But before you get too comfortable on your high horse, don't assume you know why unless you've also had several unfortunate experiences with married men or women. Then ride 'em cowboy. My hat's off to you.)

Dunno why or how, but I have the tendency to attract married men. I chalk it up to the absence of anything remotely similar to a wedding ring. My friends theorize it's because I also have this tendency to be somewhat naive about a man's intentions. Either way, whatever. Married men love me.

My first experience was in college with one of my former instructors. We dated (after I was done with his class) for about 5 months. I don't remember why we broke up, but it had nothing to do with a wife, whom I didn't meet until 3 years later. She called me one day while I was at work.


"Is this S.G.Loughlin?" asked a heavily accented female voice.

"Yes. Who is this please?"

"I'm Ramon's wife. Have you contacted my husband lately?"

Shocked. Utterly shocked. I'm opening and closing my mouth silently like a fish.

"Uh. Yes? I guess I just emailed him a few days ago."

"Well I want you to stop. Never contact him again. He is my husband. You leave him alone or I will be forced to do something to you. Did he tell you I am his wife and I have his baby? Leave him alone..." Her English was good enough to threaten bodily harm but not quite good enough to explain how the hell she got my number or what the royal fuck?

According to her, they'd be married for the last five years but she had only recently come to the U.S. (they're both West African) and learned he had been having affairs. Mind you, she's calling me years after we dated, threatening physical violence, though I'm not sure she meant to actually threaten me given English was her second, maybe third, language. Either way, I'm not going to investigate the matter too closely.

I agree to never contact him again - "No problem! I'll be sure to lose his and your number as soon as we hang up! My apologies! Have a nice life!" - and hang up.

A few days pass. I'm walking home and Ramon passes me in his car. He pulls over, smiling and asks why I haven't called him back.

"Are you kidding me? Because your wife called me. She threatened to beat me up Ramon. Um, hello. You're married?"

He sings me a song and dance about her actually being a crazy ex-girlfriend who hacked his email account and contacted all his friends to find out if he'd been cheating on her..blah blah blah...it's not true...yada yada.

Whatever dude. What. Ever.

Epilogue: She called me about a year after that asking for help. Evidently she tested positive for a STD and he had left her and the baby high and dry. As an undocumented immigrant, she didn't know where to go or how to get help. I gave her the number of a Planned Parenthood, wished her luck and raced to get my own test. Thankfully he caught it after we had broken up (whew!) and I was clean. I changed my number and email address.

Stay tuned for Dating Married Men: Part II.