I met my steady beau's parents for the first time over the holidays this year. Everything was great. They loved me, I loved them, presents were exchanged, etc.
So I was feeling pretty solid when a few days into the visit, beau and I have sex in the spare bedroom. I'm on my period, so we put a towel down. At one point in the whole romp I feel a bit more wetness than normal but I think whatever, there's a towel..
Oops.
When we're done doing the deed, I get up to examine the towel and sheets. And there are three bright red spots on the top sheet. Three more bright red spots on the under sheet. And three more bright red spots on the down comforter thinger on top of the mattress. Thankfully there weren't any on the actual mattress.
Mortified. Absolutely mortified at not only the three bright red spots but also the fact that beau has to tell his mother that I started my period and had an accident. (No fucking way are we telling her what it was actually from.)
I can overhear their conversation, in which he actually says "______ had her period last night and it got on the sheets. She's mortified." and somehow the level of embarrassment increases ten-fold.
Beau's mom handles it like a champ. She's nice and says its no big deal, gives me a hug and sends us on our way for the day. When we return, the sheets are all clean with no sign of last night's mess.
Ok, great. No problem. Handled that. But then the next morning, I wake up to find black spots all over the pillow case.
My fucking hair dye from three weeks ago stained the pillow case. I had gone to bed with my hair wet and apparently there was still dye left all these weeks later.
Fucking hell. No way am I taking the fall on this one so I insist that beau take responsibility and say it's his dirty working man's hands that caused the spots.
Whether or not beau's mother believed him, I wasn't around to find out.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
In the news
Last week, I picked up a copy of our local alt weekly, and inside, there was a story about a local band, and, whaddya know, I went on an awkward blind date with one of the fellers. Awkward's actually not the right word, not totally. It was a fun time. We met for beers and split some chicken wings, and had a nice conversation. He made me laugh. The only awkward part was when I had to tell him that although I'd had a nice time, I wasn't planning to see him again. The thing was, he had led me to believe he was at least 60 pounds lighter than he was. I like big boys, but not that big.
Flipping farther back in the issue, I saw another story about a local hip-hop dance program in town, and, whaddya know, the photo was of a fellow I'd gone out with twice, then decided not to see again. Except when, bored one drunken evening, I saw his green chat bubble pop up and flirted my way into a bootie call.
I really need to move to a bigger town.
Flipping farther back in the issue, I saw another story about a local hip-hop dance program in town, and, whaddya know, the photo was of a fellow I'd gone out with twice, then decided not to see again. Except when, bored one drunken evening, I saw his green chat bubble pop up and flirted my way into a bootie call.
I really need to move to a bigger town.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
On retiring poster boy
Hey, y’all, heads up: This is a long post. You’re not required to read it. (Yes, I’m talking to you Anonymous Cereal Hater. You’re not going to like this post. You are welcome to save yourself some time by not reading it. I can just comment for you: "Cereal sucks and she can’t write blah blah blah, Signed, ACH.")
I recently wrote here about the family of my ex, Poster Boy. All it amounts to is a little ditty about how I love and miss them, and they miss me, too. In comments, I was accused of having a heart. (And yes, maybe, Internet, I’ll admit that I do, in fact, have a heart — just don’t tell anyone, OK?)
I sent a link to a member of Poster Boy’s family, a woman who has become a friend. I think her reply was, “Awwwwwww.”
Days later, late on a Friday night, I noticed I’d missed a call from Poster Boy. I called him back pronto, since, although we’d remained friendly enough that I’d actually had him and his girlfriend to my house for a big, fan-fucking-tastic end-of-the-summer bash about a month prior, (after I extended the invite, he called me to thank me, then Miss Poster Boy emailed me, thanked me for the invite, and asked what she could bring. I thought we were all being Oh-So Mature until he got a little too drunk at the party, and, in a mock-friendly gesture, slapped me on the back hard enough to leave a welt) he didn’t usually call me at midnight. I was worried.
“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about what you wrote about me and my family on the internet,” he said. I could tell he was drunk. I refused, on account of the drunkenness and told him we’d talk later.
But when I got home, I listened to the message. It was a condescending reprimand about how I needed to move on and stop writing about him on the Internet, (I guess writing my mother, or writing in my journal, or writing a zine would have been cool, but not the Internet) about how I’m a grown adult and I need to start acting like one. I think there was something in there about how the internet isn’t everything. (We know better than that, though, don’t we?) I texted him a message reading, basically: “Eat shit and die.”
He called me. Stupidly, I answered, and he ranted and talked down to me. When I reminded him that he was not allowed to talk like that to me, he actually responded, “I can talk to you any fucking way I want.” Naturally, I hung up on him.
But I was confused. He’d never before minded when I wrote about him on DIW. I think he liked the notoriety. He even commented on some posts — even after we broke up. He e-mailed me about one once and told me it had touched him. And there are choice Poster Boy stories — horrifying, jaw-dropping stories — that I’ve never written about on this site. Believe it or not, I do have boundaries.
I noticed the next day that a comment had been left on the post at about the same time we talked, an anonymous comment reading “get a fucking life and move on.”
I was done. I sent an email and told him that if he didn’t want me to write about him, he could’ve just ASKED. I wouldn’t even need a “please.” But I’d taken my last drunken phone call—something I should have done years earlier. I told him to lose my number.
Then a twist came. Poster Boy replied to my e-mail. He apologized. Twice. He told me he knew he shouldn’t have spoken to me like that and shouldn’t have called drunk. Then he closed by saying that he hadn’t commented on the post, hadn’t even read it, and: “Just so you know it makes things awkward for me that my family and you still are in contact with each other.”
Clarity. It was young Miss Poster Boy who’d read the post, gotten pissed, left the shitty comment. In all likelihood, it was she he was showing off for when he called and insulted me. Of course.
And it’s no wonder. Not everyone understands this about blogging and dating: When you’re in a relationship, a really good one, sometimes the new relationship doesn’t make it on your dating blog. I guess some people don’t like being written about on shit-talky dating blogs. That’s actually OK with me because the funny thing that happened yesterday with the sensitive, sexy man I’m now running around with? It feels precious and private.
However, the love I feel for people who were a second family to me for half of a decade? That feels like something other people might identify with. Lots of emotionally mature folks get that sort of thing.
And Miss Poster Boy? Poor thing. I sort of feel bad that she’s so insecure. That she doesn’t get, and clearly doesn’t have, that type of connection, forged over time. I really wish her luck with Poster Boy. And I know she’s going to need it.
But, here’s the thing: She won. Poster Boy and I are done. We don’t talk. I think that’s what she really wanted. Thanks to her hissy fit, I’ve decided it’s time to retire Poster Boy.
I recently wrote here about the family of my ex, Poster Boy. All it amounts to is a little ditty about how I love and miss them, and they miss me, too. In comments, I was accused of having a heart. (And yes, maybe, Internet, I’ll admit that I do, in fact, have a heart — just don’t tell anyone, OK?)
I sent a link to a member of Poster Boy’s family, a woman who has become a friend. I think her reply was, “Awwwwwww.”
Days later, late on a Friday night, I noticed I’d missed a call from Poster Boy. I called him back pronto, since, although we’d remained friendly enough that I’d actually had him and his girlfriend to my house for a big, fan-fucking-tastic end-of-the-summer bash about a month prior, (after I extended the invite, he called me to thank me, then Miss Poster Boy emailed me, thanked me for the invite, and asked what she could bring. I thought we were all being Oh-So Mature until he got a little too drunk at the party, and, in a mock-friendly gesture, slapped me on the back hard enough to leave a welt) he didn’t usually call me at midnight. I was worried.
“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about what you wrote about me and my family on the internet,” he said. I could tell he was drunk. I refused, on account of the drunkenness and told him we’d talk later.
But when I got home, I listened to the message. It was a condescending reprimand about how I needed to move on and stop writing about him on the Internet, (I guess writing my mother, or writing in my journal, or writing a zine would have been cool, but not the Internet) about how I’m a grown adult and I need to start acting like one. I think there was something in there about how the internet isn’t everything. (We know better than that, though, don’t we?) I texted him a message reading, basically: “Eat shit and die.”
He called me. Stupidly, I answered, and he ranted and talked down to me. When I reminded him that he was not allowed to talk like that to me, he actually responded, “I can talk to you any fucking way I want.” Naturally, I hung up on him.
But I was confused. He’d never before minded when I wrote about him on DIW. I think he liked the notoriety. He even commented on some posts — even after we broke up. He e-mailed me about one once and told me it had touched him. And there are choice Poster Boy stories — horrifying, jaw-dropping stories — that I’ve never written about on this site. Believe it or not, I do have boundaries.
I noticed the next day that a comment had been left on the post at about the same time we talked, an anonymous comment reading “get a fucking life and move on.”
I was done. I sent an email and told him that if he didn’t want me to write about him, he could’ve just ASKED. I wouldn’t even need a “please.” But I’d taken my last drunken phone call—something I should have done years earlier. I told him to lose my number.
Then a twist came. Poster Boy replied to my e-mail. He apologized. Twice. He told me he knew he shouldn’t have spoken to me like that and shouldn’t have called drunk. Then he closed by saying that he hadn’t commented on the post, hadn’t even read it, and: “Just so you know it makes things awkward for me that my family and you still are in contact with each other.”
Clarity. It was young Miss Poster Boy who’d read the post, gotten pissed, left the shitty comment. In all likelihood, it was she he was showing off for when he called and insulted me. Of course.
And it’s no wonder. Not everyone understands this about blogging and dating: When you’re in a relationship, a really good one, sometimes the new relationship doesn’t make it on your dating blog. I guess some people don’t like being written about on shit-talky dating blogs. That’s actually OK with me because the funny thing that happened yesterday with the sensitive, sexy man I’m now running around with? It feels precious and private.
However, the love I feel for people who were a second family to me for half of a decade? That feels like something other people might identify with. Lots of emotionally mature folks get that sort of thing.
And Miss Poster Boy? Poor thing. I sort of feel bad that she’s so insecure. That she doesn’t get, and clearly doesn’t have, that type of connection, forged over time. I really wish her luck with Poster Boy. And I know she’s going to need it.
But, here’s the thing: She won. Poster Boy and I are done. We don’t talk. I think that’s what she really wanted. Thanks to her hissy fit, I’ve decided it’s time to retire Poster Boy.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Band
Or: How to ruin your ex’s birthdays for the rest of his natural life in ten steps
Step one: Find out that one of his favorite bands is playing on his birthday, in town, in a tiny venue.
Step two: Go to the show with him… not like WITH him, but with his friend group.
Step three: Dress really well. Drink. Dance. Take some pictures. Get up really close to the stage.
Step four: Find out where the band is drinking after the show, and then drag him and his friends there.
Step five: Get autographs and strike up a conversation with the band.
Step six: Have the guitarist buy him a birthday drink. Accept several free drinks from said guitarist, since he asked, thank you very much.
Step seven: It would be a huge plus if the guitarist has a foreign accent.
Step eight: Find out that the guitarist was just standing in for their usual guitarist, but that he usually tours with a much more well-known band that you are also a fan of.
Step nine: Get yourself invited back to the hotel to party. Make sure the ex and his friends have got an invite too. Party like a goddamn rockstar, but keep your clothes on.
Step ten: Apologize. He will never be able to top that as a birthday party. Ever.
-Slightly Disheveled
Step one: Find out that one of his favorite bands is playing on his birthday, in town, in a tiny venue.
Step two: Go to the show with him… not like WITH him, but with his friend group.
Step three: Dress really well. Drink. Dance. Take some pictures. Get up really close to the stage.
Step four: Find out where the band is drinking after the show, and then drag him and his friends there.
Step five: Get autographs and strike up a conversation with the band.
Step six: Have the guitarist buy him a birthday drink. Accept several free drinks from said guitarist, since he asked, thank you very much.
Step seven: It would be a huge plus if the guitarist has a foreign accent.
Step eight: Find out that the guitarist was just standing in for their usual guitarist, but that he usually tours with a much more well-known band that you are also a fan of.
Step nine: Get yourself invited back to the hotel to party. Make sure the ex and his friends have got an invite too. Party like a goddamn rockstar, but keep your clothes on.
Step ten: Apologize. He will never be able to top that as a birthday party. Ever.
-Slightly Disheveled
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status
Part One: Make a Breakfast Burrito
Many friends, acquaintances and talk shows have told me over the years that it is impossible to stay fuck buddies with someone. Reasons are that either emotions get in the way because one person wants a relationship and the other doesn't or that it ruins friendships, as sex often does. However, I'm happy to report that I've managed to pull it off in multiple instances, so I'd like to share my knowledge with those of you who are committed to establishing and maintaining a fuck buddy relationship. So, I present to you a series on how to maintain fuck buddy status.
First, we must weed out candidates who do not belong here. It is true that most fuck buddy situations get screwed up when one party develops romantic feelings (rather than purely lustful feelings) for the other party. If you are the type of person who can't engage in sex without developing these sort of emotions, turn back now. Accept yourself for who you are, and wait patiently for a relationship. Also, if you do not drink, this course is not for you.
It is true that sex ruins friendships. So don't be fuck buddies with your friends. If you want to maintain fuck buddy status, you cannot be friends with your fuck buddy. The only reason you should hang out with your fuck buddy is to fuck. Are we clear? Yes, you can go out drinking and engage in other activities with your fuck buddy, but all of these activities should be seen only as a precursor to fucking.
So, now that we've eliminated the emotional types and we've established the First Habit of Highly Effective Fuck Buddies (don't be friends), we can move on to establishing the fuck buddy relationship. This is important because without the proper steps, a fuck buddy arrangement can easily become one of the above scenarios. If a friendship or romantic feelings develop, you and your fuck buddy are fucked.
Both times I've established and maintained fuck buddy status, it began with getting drunk. After you're sufficiently sloshed, find your target. Your target should be someone you kind of know but who is not part of your circle of friends. Maybe it's a bartender who at least recognizes you from previous visits. Maybe it's a friend of a friend of a friend (notice three degrees of separation, not two) or someone who you have "seen around campus." College is, of course, the ideal time for fuck buddies. In a nutshell, your target should not be a total stranger, and at the very least you should know that this person actually lives in your city. So let's hope you are intoxicated enough to continue to the next step, because you've got to be pretty bold for this part. You must make it clear to your target that you are interested in having sex, right away, that night.
What happens after your target accepts your edict is really only your business, but the next morning is crucial. If you're at the target's house and you sneak out without saying goodbye, this encounter is destined to remain a one-night stand. Same goes for if you are the host and you kick your potential fuck buddy out as soon as you wake up. The appropriate thing to do if you are hosting is to make your potential fuck buddy breakfast. Make something casual and simple, like a breakfast burrito. Don't make a big deal out of it; this might be read as a sign that you are trying to establish a relationship. No, if you want to get yourself a fuck buddy, you must prepare a breakfast that says "I care about you just enough that I don't want you to be hungry." If you are not hosting, eat it. Say thank you. When you are done, go home. You don't need to say why you are leaving; just leave.
This concludes Part One of How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status. Tune in sometime later to read more, including appropriate activities for fuck buddies, birthday etiquette, text messaging and appropriate discussion topics.
Some Sexpert
Many friends, acquaintances and talk shows have told me over the years that it is impossible to stay fuck buddies with someone. Reasons are that either emotions get in the way because one person wants a relationship and the other doesn't or that it ruins friendships, as sex often does. However, I'm happy to report that I've managed to pull it off in multiple instances, so I'd like to share my knowledge with those of you who are committed to establishing and maintaining a fuck buddy relationship. So, I present to you a series on how to maintain fuck buddy status.
First, we must weed out candidates who do not belong here. It is true that most fuck buddy situations get screwed up when one party develops romantic feelings (rather than purely lustful feelings) for the other party. If you are the type of person who can't engage in sex without developing these sort of emotions, turn back now. Accept yourself for who you are, and wait patiently for a relationship. Also, if you do not drink, this course is not for you.
It is true that sex ruins friendships. So don't be fuck buddies with your friends. If you want to maintain fuck buddy status, you cannot be friends with your fuck buddy. The only reason you should hang out with your fuck buddy is to fuck. Are we clear? Yes, you can go out drinking and engage in other activities with your fuck buddy, but all of these activities should be seen only as a precursor to fucking.
So, now that we've eliminated the emotional types and we've established the First Habit of Highly Effective Fuck Buddies (don't be friends), we can move on to establishing the fuck buddy relationship. This is important because without the proper steps, a fuck buddy arrangement can easily become one of the above scenarios. If a friendship or romantic feelings develop, you and your fuck buddy are fucked.
Both times I've established and maintained fuck buddy status, it began with getting drunk. After you're sufficiently sloshed, find your target. Your target should be someone you kind of know but who is not part of your circle of friends. Maybe it's a bartender who at least recognizes you from previous visits. Maybe it's a friend of a friend of a friend (notice three degrees of separation, not two) or someone who you have "seen around campus." College is, of course, the ideal time for fuck buddies. In a nutshell, your target should not be a total stranger, and at the very least you should know that this person actually lives in your city. So let's hope you are intoxicated enough to continue to the next step, because you've got to be pretty bold for this part. You must make it clear to your target that you are interested in having sex, right away, that night.
What happens after your target accepts your edict is really only your business, but the next morning is crucial. If you're at the target's house and you sneak out without saying goodbye, this encounter is destined to remain a one-night stand. Same goes for if you are the host and you kick your potential fuck buddy out as soon as you wake up. The appropriate thing to do if you are hosting is to make your potential fuck buddy breakfast. Make something casual and simple, like a breakfast burrito. Don't make a big deal out of it; this might be read as a sign that you are trying to establish a relationship. No, if you want to get yourself a fuck buddy, you must prepare a breakfast that says "I care about you just enough that I don't want you to be hungry." If you are not hosting, eat it. Say thank you. When you are done, go home. You don't need to say why you are leaving; just leave.
This concludes Part One of How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status. Tune in sometime later to read more, including appropriate activities for fuck buddies, birthday etiquette, text messaging and appropriate discussion topics.
Some Sexpert
Monday, November 30, 2009
Throw Up in Your Mouth Alert
I'm not the Rom-Com type. I hate cheesy romantic stories where the chick gets swept off her feet by Matthew McConaughey (why is he in every one of those god-forsaken movies?) and I typically retch when told cutesey-wootsey tales of love. Valentine's Day is bullshit as are most things having to do with Disney's version of true love.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
On kissing photos
Dear Facebook,
First, let me make it clear that I think it is gross when ANYONE posts a profile picture that features people kissing. I don't really care if people post kissing photos in albums, and it doesn't bother me when people's profile pictures include a significant other. In fact, I think that is kind of sweet. But I draw the line at kissing pictures. And I know I am not alone. A friend of mine just a few minutes ago posted a status message about how gross it was to watch people kissing in public (on a plane). No, it's not better when it is a photo instead of live.
So, Facebook, because I don't want to see kissing photos of anyone -- not newlyweds, not close friends, not my grandparents, not strangers -- no matter how attractive they are, it should come as no surprise to you that I do not want to see it when my ex-boyfriend posts a profile picture of him kissing his current girlfriend. Let me make it clear that I honestly and truthfully never think about this ex. I don't think about any of my exes, and I don't harbor any kind of feelings for any of them, negative or positive. Note that no negative feelings means I do not unfriend my exes on Facebook because that would require feelings, specifically unfriendly ones. It is possible for me to have no feelings of any sort for my exes because I don't communicate with them. At all. This method has always worked amazingly well and has made my life low on drama and heartache. Best of all, it's very easy for me.
It was also easy for me to move on. It was easy for me to get into a good relationship with someone I truly love, live with and have been with for a long time. It was easy for me to not think of my ex. However, you have caused a quandary, Facebook. Yes, I did hide his updates from appearing in my news stream so that I could continue life with the luxury of not thinking about him. But, as I explained beofre, he is still there. That means when I search my friends, sometimes I see his photo.
This brings me to yesterday, and the suddently stronger-than-usual aversion to kissing photos. My eyes registered the kissing photo, and my brain said, "hmm, that's gross, but you don't care. Why would you care? You haven't thought about him for a long time, and you have no ill will toward him, so it shouldn't bother you that he has a girlfriend. Who he is kissing. In his Facebook profile picture. ... What are you doing? Why are you clicking on it? Now you're going to see his whole profile, you idiot! What?! You're clicking it again so you can see a bigger version of it? Why? Why would you ... huh, he still lives in that same crappy apartment. Close this page! Good job."
So, you see, Facebook, you are messing up my whole strategy. Of course, that was yesterday and this is today. Today, I don't care about the ex-boyfriend-kissing-new-girlfriend photo. (Did I ever?) Of course, I'm not looking at it right now either. Why am I not looking at it? Because photos of people kissing being put as their Facebook profile pictures is GROSS, and that is really all I was trying to say. Really.
Get a Room Or Stop Snogging
First, let me make it clear that I think it is gross when ANYONE posts a profile picture that features people kissing. I don't really care if people post kissing photos in albums, and it doesn't bother me when people's profile pictures include a significant other. In fact, I think that is kind of sweet. But I draw the line at kissing pictures. And I know I am not alone. A friend of mine just a few minutes ago posted a status message about how gross it was to watch people kissing in public (on a plane). No, it's not better when it is a photo instead of live.
So, Facebook, because I don't want to see kissing photos of anyone -- not newlyweds, not close friends, not my grandparents, not strangers -- no matter how attractive they are, it should come as no surprise to you that I do not want to see it when my ex-boyfriend posts a profile picture of him kissing his current girlfriend. Let me make it clear that I honestly and truthfully never think about this ex. I don't think about any of my exes, and I don't harbor any kind of feelings for any of them, negative or positive. Note that no negative feelings means I do not unfriend my exes on Facebook because that would require feelings, specifically unfriendly ones. It is possible for me to have no feelings of any sort for my exes because I don't communicate with them. At all. This method has always worked amazingly well and has made my life low on drama and heartache. Best of all, it's very easy for me.
It was also easy for me to move on. It was easy for me to get into a good relationship with someone I truly love, live with and have been with for a long time. It was easy for me to not think of my ex. However, you have caused a quandary, Facebook. Yes, I did hide his updates from appearing in my news stream so that I could continue life with the luxury of not thinking about him. But, as I explained beofre, he is still there. That means when I search my friends, sometimes I see his photo.
This brings me to yesterday, and the suddently stronger-than-usual aversion to kissing photos. My eyes registered the kissing photo, and my brain said, "hmm, that's gross, but you don't care. Why would you care? You haven't thought about him for a long time, and you have no ill will toward him, so it shouldn't bother you that he has a girlfriend. Who he is kissing. In his Facebook profile picture. ... What are you doing? Why are you clicking on it? Now you're going to see his whole profile, you idiot! What?! You're clicking it again so you can see a bigger version of it? Why? Why would you ... huh, he still lives in that same crappy apartment. Close this page! Good job."
So, you see, Facebook, you are messing up my whole strategy. Of course, that was yesterday and this is today. Today, I don't care about the ex-boyfriend-kissing-new-girlfriend photo. (Did I ever?) Of course, I'm not looking at it right now either. Why am I not looking at it? Because photos of people kissing being put as their Facebook profile pictures is GROSS, and that is really all I was trying to say. Really.
Get a Room Or Stop Snogging
Thursday, November 19, 2009
1%
A little while ago, a newishly-single, male friend was getting set up on a date with a woman he’d only met once; the setters were a married couple. Just before the date, the setter-husband got just drunk enough to tell my buddy this:
“You know how probably 20 percent of girls will let you put it in their asses, and then only 1 percent of THEM actually like it? I’m telling you, I don’t know why, but I think this girl’s a 1 percenter.”
Personally, I lack the equipment (and inclination) to have a sample set against which to compare this data, but I’m just sayin’ this: Really?
I mean, Really?
“You know how probably 20 percent of girls will let you put it in their asses, and then only 1 percent of THEM actually like it? I’m telling you, I don’t know why, but I think this girl’s a 1 percenter.”
Personally, I lack the equipment (and inclination) to have a sample set against which to compare this data, but I’m just sayin’ this: Really?
I mean, Really?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Flowchart to Determine If Your Girlfriend Is Cheating On You
**Funny story over at holytaco.com
Girlfriends are a lot like volcanoes: they're fascinating and mysterious, and at any time they can explode and completely blow your head off. I might be confusing volcanoes with those collars from the movie Scanners. Anyway, here's a flowchart to help you determine if your girlfriend is cheating on you:
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sniffle
OK, so being sick sucks. But when you're in a new relationship, it's a wonderful litmus test. The first time you're stuck in bed, feeling miserable, achey, smelly and like maybe you'd like the rest of the world to go ahead and fuck off and die, and then Mr. Lovely shows up with 7-up and pudding cups, then sits on your bedside rubbing your back for a minute before loading up your bed with pillows, and setting up your laptop with his hard drive full of mindless movies? It's kind of kickass.
And if he gets sick a day later, and you get to return the favor, and make him soup and rub his back and clean up the nasty tissues and act like you couldn't care in the least? It's satisfying -- NOT, of course, that you don't feel awful that he's sick, especially since you know where he got the cooties in the first place.
Now, you've probably seen this, hell, I've probably posted it here before, but I like watching this come flu season:
And if he gets sick a day later, and you get to return the favor, and make him soup and rub his back and clean up the nasty tissues and act like you couldn't care in the least? It's satisfying -- NOT, of course, that you don't feel awful that he's sick, especially since you know where he got the cooties in the first place.
Now, you've probably seen this, hell, I've probably posted it here before, but I like watching this come flu season:
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Can't get enough of that Craigslist
*** Editor's note: Today's Craigslist Gem comes from Sir Robin, AKA The Fool. Happy dating! ***
Being male, I'm used to being cast as the villain, but there are some dating scenarios that would make even the most virtuous white knight act rather like Sir Robin. Appropriately enough, a confrontation with a three-headed ogre is a pretty fair metaphor when used to describe my date, although to hear her tell it, I was the one who behaved inappropriately. We had first connected online, through Craig's List, and the day after our dating disaster, I found the following post:
"/Last night was the worst first date of my life. Not only was it with the creepiest guy I had ever seen, but after pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's and making me drive an hour out of my way, he barely said a word to me... except to call me fat and tell me to stop eating so much. He tried to order booze after I told him I didn't drink, and he wouldn't take his shades off the entire time. We won't be going out again./"
There was no question that it was about me. The sunglasses bit confirmed it, although she left out the part where I apologized for my debilitating light-sensitivity. Still, as certain as I was about the subject of the story, I wasn't completely clear on the details.
1. "/... After pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's.../" Apparently, responding to passive-aggressive accusations about not being interested counts as pressuring. When I suggested that we wait until Saturday afternoon to meet - rather than a bit past ten on Friday evening - she questioned whether I really wanted to meet at all. I assured her that I did, and she asked if I knew of any restaurants that were open late. "Only Denny's," I joked. Her unexpected response was that Denny's was fine by her. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I supposed that it was better than a dingy dive bar somewhere.
2. "/... Making me drive an hour out of my way.../" We lived three hours apart. You do the math.
3. "/... except to call me fat.../" She weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she had led me to believe, but I didn't say anything about it. At least, not until she asked - and this was perhaps the second thing she said to me - "I'm heavier than you expected, aren't I?" My response, for the record, was a decidedly lame reply of "And prettier, too!" Really, though, is there a right answer to that question?
4. "/... and tell me to stop eating so much./" While we had been planning the date, she asked if I would mind paying. While we were eating, she kept ordering more additions to the meal. While looking into my wallet - figuratively speaking - I politely stated that I couldn't comfortably afford much more, being that I was a broke college student. While ignoring my statement, she ate my french fries.
5. "/He tried to order booze.../" No, I tried to order a Shirley Temple. It was the waiter who thought that I was trying to order booze. At least he realized his mistake after I explained it to him.
Perhaps my favorite accusation, though, is this one:
6. "/... he barely said a word to me./" This is true. Of course, it's a little bit hard to get a word in edgewise when she and her sister - who she brought along as a chaperon - are spending the entire time gossiping about friends whom I've never even heard of whilst dining on the meal that I paid for. It's even worse when they both glare at me every time I try to interject a comment or ask a question, and downright insulting when the they discuss me in whispers that they think I can't overhear from across the table.
In spite of all those incorrect details, though, there's definitely one thing that she got exactly right: "/We won't be going out again./"
Believe me, folks... As soon as it was polite enough to do so, Sir Robin ran away.
Being male, I'm used to being cast as the villain, but there are some dating scenarios that would make even the most virtuous white knight act rather like Sir Robin. Appropriately enough, a confrontation with a three-headed ogre is a pretty fair metaphor when used to describe my date, although to hear her tell it, I was the one who behaved inappropriately. We had first connected online, through Craig's List, and the day after our dating disaster, I found the following post:
"/Last night was the worst first date of my life. Not only was it with the creepiest guy I had ever seen, but after pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's and making me drive an hour out of my way, he barely said a word to me... except to call me fat and tell me to stop eating so much. He tried to order booze after I told him I didn't drink, and he wouldn't take his shades off the entire time. We won't be going out again./"
There was no question that it was about me. The sunglasses bit confirmed it, although she left out the part where I apologized for my debilitating light-sensitivity. Still, as certain as I was about the subject of the story, I wasn't completely clear on the details.
1. "/... After pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's.../" Apparently, responding to passive-aggressive accusations about not being interested counts as pressuring. When I suggested that we wait until Saturday afternoon to meet - rather than a bit past ten on Friday evening - she questioned whether I really wanted to meet at all. I assured her that I did, and she asked if I knew of any restaurants that were open late. "Only Denny's," I joked. Her unexpected response was that Denny's was fine by her. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I supposed that it was better than a dingy dive bar somewhere.
2. "/... Making me drive an hour out of my way.../" We lived three hours apart. You do the math.
3. "/... except to call me fat.../" She weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she had led me to believe, but I didn't say anything about it. At least, not until she asked - and this was perhaps the second thing she said to me - "I'm heavier than you expected, aren't I?" My response, for the record, was a decidedly lame reply of "And prettier, too!" Really, though, is there a right answer to that question?
4. "/... and tell me to stop eating so much./" While we had been planning the date, she asked if I would mind paying. While we were eating, she kept ordering more additions to the meal. While looking into my wallet - figuratively speaking - I politely stated that I couldn't comfortably afford much more, being that I was a broke college student. While ignoring my statement, she ate my french fries.
5. "/He tried to order booze.../" No, I tried to order a Shirley Temple. It was the waiter who thought that I was trying to order booze. At least he realized his mistake after I explained it to him.
Perhaps my favorite accusation, though, is this one:
6. "/... he barely said a word to me./" This is true. Of course, it's a little bit hard to get a word in edgewise when she and her sister - who she brought along as a chaperon - are spending the entire time gossiping about friends whom I've never even heard of whilst dining on the meal that I paid for. It's even worse when they both glare at me every time I try to interject a comment or ask a question, and downright insulting when the they discuss me in whispers that they think I can't overhear from across the table.
In spite of all those incorrect details, though, there's definitely one thing that she got exactly right: "/We won't be going out again./"
Believe me, folks... As soon as it was polite enough to do so, Sir Robin ran away.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Adventures on CL
At the start of summer I placed an add on Craigslist in an attempt to find a few playmates for my two year old son and hopefully one for myself. Our first meetings were usually at a park with the kids just before nap time so I had an easy out if things turned bad.
The following is an example of when things turn out bad, well badish.
In my inbox was a long message from a woman, lets call her Lisa. Lisa is a single mother of four boys, all two years apart, all with different fathers. I am not one to judge being the middle child of three who all have different dads but she also has restraining orders on two of the four so... We seemed to have a list of things in common but they're the sort of things that most everyone has in common- funny movies, likes dogs, eating good food, drinking, etc etc. And a number of things not in common, the biggest being an addiction to drugs that she had beaten a couple of years back... not something I would include in my opening get to know you letter but... I wrote back and sent her a picture of myself asking for one in return. She sent me a number of photos and although I considered her sort of pretty she wasn't smiling in a single one. I thought it odd and asked for a smile and got a sort of grimace with tight lips. After a week or so we met at a local park with my son and two of her boys. I didn't dress up but looking at her Cowboys sweatshirt that was four or five sizes too large, the Yankees hat pulled down over her eyes and the faded and torn blue jeans Lisa wore didn't make me feel like I'd found someone really special. We sat on a bench and talked while the kids played but I spent the whole time talking to the back of her head. At first I thought maybe she's just really diligent about watching her boys but something felt wrong. At this point I could already tell that we weren't very compatible and was getting ready to institute the 'nap time' clause. Just then one of Lisa's boys ran up to us and as they talked I noticed that something was wrong with Lisa's mouth. I couldn't put my finger on it at first but over the next five minutes or so I came to realize that she was missing all her upper teeth. A bare palate. She must have seen me notice because she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away again. Now I felt like an ass... how to leave gracefully? I had already made the decision to go before I caught sight of her toothless mouth but now all signs would point to THAT being my reason for going. I kept up some small talk for a minute and then luckily, my son shit his pants so we were able to make a discreet exit.
I have a good friend who, upon hearing this story asked me what the problem was. 'I mean, come on dude,' he said. 'She doesn't have any teeth. THINK ABOUT IT MAN, JUST THINK ABOUT IT.'
The following is an example of when things turn out bad, well badish.
In my inbox was a long message from a woman, lets call her Lisa. Lisa is a single mother of four boys, all two years apart, all with different fathers. I am not one to judge being the middle child of three who all have different dads but she also has restraining orders on two of the four so... We seemed to have a list of things in common but they're the sort of things that most everyone has in common- funny movies, likes dogs, eating good food, drinking, etc etc. And a number of things not in common, the biggest being an addiction to drugs that she had beaten a couple of years back... not something I would include in my opening get to know you letter but... I wrote back and sent her a picture of myself asking for one in return. She sent me a number of photos and although I considered her sort of pretty she wasn't smiling in a single one. I thought it odd and asked for a smile and got a sort of grimace with tight lips. After a week or so we met at a local park with my son and two of her boys. I didn't dress up but looking at her Cowboys sweatshirt that was four or five sizes too large, the Yankees hat pulled down over her eyes and the faded and torn blue jeans Lisa wore didn't make me feel like I'd found someone really special. We sat on a bench and talked while the kids played but I spent the whole time talking to the back of her head. At first I thought maybe she's just really diligent about watching her boys but something felt wrong. At this point I could already tell that we weren't very compatible and was getting ready to institute the 'nap time' clause. Just then one of Lisa's boys ran up to us and as they talked I noticed that something was wrong with Lisa's mouth. I couldn't put my finger on it at first but over the next five minutes or so I came to realize that she was missing all her upper teeth. A bare palate. She must have seen me notice because she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away again. Now I felt like an ass... how to leave gracefully? I had already made the decision to go before I caught sight of her toothless mouth but now all signs would point to THAT being my reason for going. I kept up some small talk for a minute and then luckily, my son shit his pants so we were able to make a discreet exit.
I have a good friend who, upon hearing this story asked me what the problem was. 'I mean, come on dude,' he said. 'She doesn't have any teeth. THINK ABOUT IT MAN, JUST THINK ABOUT IT.'
Family
Poster Boy and I split a year and a half ago, and that's a good thing. It's been great for both of us.
The thing that still sucks though? I love his family.
The first time I met his grandmother, she walked into the room in her coordinated pantsuit, her smart black wig, giant glasses and dangling, colorful earrings and waved her cigarette at me while exclaiming in a voice that can only come from years of chain smoking, "What a pretty girl!"
How could I not fall in love?
I sent Poster Boy's family Christmas cards last year, the first Christmas in a half-decade that I wasn't with them. I've had drinks with some of them since going solo, gotten together once or twice. But I haven't heard from the grandparents (who adore their only grandson with a sweetly blind fervor) since the breakup.
So when I saw a missed call from their house on my phone last week, my heart started pounding. Shit, shit, shit. They're old, and not very healthy.
There was a voice mail. I called, my hands practically shaking, not at all willing to hear bad news about these people, who for the years I knew them were more kind to me than most of my own grandparents had ever been.
A message from poster boy's aunt:
"Hey, (Serial). I was just calling because my mom's cleaning some stuff out of the house, and she has this bear that wears costumes, and she wanted to send it to you. She said you had admired it once. So we need your address, if you send it now maybe we can get it to you in time for Halloween. Call us back here. We miss you sweetheart, hope you're doing good."
I called back, I'd missed grandma, so I left my address with grandpa. He told me how it had been a good relationship, and to keep in touch, and that they wanted me to know how much they had always liked me.
I can't wait to get that goddam bear.
The thing that still sucks though? I love his family.
The first time I met his grandmother, she walked into the room in her coordinated pantsuit, her smart black wig, giant glasses and dangling, colorful earrings and waved her cigarette at me while exclaiming in a voice that can only come from years of chain smoking, "What a pretty girl!"
How could I not fall in love?
I sent Poster Boy's family Christmas cards last year, the first Christmas in a half-decade that I wasn't with them. I've had drinks with some of them since going solo, gotten together once or twice. But I haven't heard from the grandparents (who adore their only grandson with a sweetly blind fervor) since the breakup.
So when I saw a missed call from their house on my phone last week, my heart started pounding. Shit, shit, shit. They're old, and not very healthy.
There was a voice mail. I called, my hands practically shaking, not at all willing to hear bad news about these people, who for the years I knew them were more kind to me than most of my own grandparents had ever been.
A message from poster boy's aunt:
"Hey, (Serial). I was just calling because my mom's cleaning some stuff out of the house, and she has this bear that wears costumes, and she wanted to send it to you. She said you had admired it once. So we need your address, if you send it now maybe we can get it to you in time for Halloween. Call us back here. We miss you sweetheart, hope you're doing good."
I called back, I'd missed grandma, so I left my address with grandpa. He told me how it had been a good relationship, and to keep in touch, and that they wanted me to know how much they had always liked me.
I can't wait to get that goddam bear.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Better Late Than Never
**Makes sense this would come in from an anon.
A few years ago an ex of mine (who dumped me), died. We'd lost touch, but I heard about it through old friends. What sucks is that she was quite young. What is weird is that after hearing of her death, I had a few dreams about her. In the dreams she was yelling at me (in our two year relationship she never yelled, ever) and telling me how horrible I was at relationships. So I started thinking about her and our relationship and recognized that she was right, that I really was bad at being in a relationship. I communicated rarely and when I did I was aloof and distracted. I am ashamed to say that I think I went for months without looking her in the eye. I judged her for her inability to find a job, I criticized her for her shyness at parties, and one time, oh god, I even called her fat.
No wonder she dumped me, though at the time I remember feeling it all as quite unfair. At any rate, the realization that I had been such an asshole, no, that I'd actually been way worse than just an asshole, I'd been a mean asshole, hit me pretty hard and I was filled with massive remorse. All I wanted to do was apologize -- but she was DEAD! Frankly, the whole thing was really kinda sad.
A few years ago an ex of mine (who dumped me), died. We'd lost touch, but I heard about it through old friends. What sucks is that she was quite young. What is weird is that after hearing of her death, I had a few dreams about her. In the dreams she was yelling at me (in our two year relationship she never yelled, ever) and telling me how horrible I was at relationships. So I started thinking about her and our relationship and recognized that she was right, that I really was bad at being in a relationship. I communicated rarely and when I did I was aloof and distracted. I am ashamed to say that I think I went for months without looking her in the eye. I judged her for her inability to find a job, I criticized her for her shyness at parties, and one time, oh god, I even called her fat.
No wonder she dumped me, though at the time I remember feeling it all as quite unfair. At any rate, the realization that I had been such an asshole, no, that I'd actually been way worse than just an asshole, I'd been a mean asshole, hit me pretty hard and I was filled with massive remorse. All I wanted to do was apologize -- but she was DEAD! Frankly, the whole thing was really kinda sad.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Dear Serial: Who buys dinner?
Dear Serial,
So, I'm back into the dating scene again after a 15-year hiatus, and am totally clueless about protocol, etc. I figured that you, Ms. Serial, as a renowned and infamous serial dater, might have some advice on first dates, having had SOOOOOO many.
So, I have a date tomorrow with a friend of a friend. We're planning to go out for dinner, and I'm unsure about the whole payment thing. I mean, it used to be that dudes were always expected to pay, but when I was dating before, that wasn't always the deal. I mean, some women were actually offended by that and felt like if the man paid, there was an expectation. Plus, this is a reaaaaallly casual date. I have no idea if I'm at all "into" this woman. I'm kinda just wanting to go on some dates and see how it all works again.
So, should I pay or not?
Mr. Completely Out Of the Loop
Dear Mr. Cool (nice work on that one, by the by),
Yes. Pay for dinner.
Love,
Serial
OK, cool, sorry. You probably were looking for some justification on this one. So just to be sure, I surveyed women of various ages, and all said that yes, they want a man to pay for dinner. One response was, and I'm not making this up, "If he wants a blow job he'll pay."
Now, I'm not saying buying dinner automatically entitles you to a blow job, you'll have to show up with flowers or something in order to earn that (and not roses, for the love of god). Most women will go on a date with the expectation that she might have to pay half. One woman said that she always takes enough cash to pay for half of dinner and a cab ride home. Now maybe my sample's unenlightened and anti-feminist, but ... there's a good chance that a lady who's going to go on such a traditional first date is not exactly avant-garde.
Personally, if I go out with a guy, and offer to pay half (I always offer), and my cash doesn't get turned down, I assume he's not that into me. So, I guess if that's the message you want to convey, then by all means, split the check. Hell, try to get her to pay. That could work out really well for you, I guess. Perhaps she's rich and looking for a kept man? Stranger things have happened.
XOXO Cool,
Serial
Got a question for the Serial Monogamist? Send it on over to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
just to be sure I thought I'd ask
When a young woman tells you to "stop doing that with your toes and get out of my house in fact forget it i'm calling the cops and im telling all our friends what you did and i cant believe you did that i feel sick to my stomach." is there any possible way that she's just playing hard to get? My intuition tells me that she was actually upset, but just to be sure i thought I'd ask.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Arm twisting
Last night, I had a newish squeeze over for a movie. I succumbed to a frantic week, and passed out about 20 minutes in. I woke to the credits, and a large hand pinching my thigh.
"Hmf," I said, in my best imitation of myself from Jr. High, "Can't I just sleep here?"
"You can sleep wherever you want," he said. "I'm gonna go get naked and get in your bed."
And that, boys, is how you convince a lady.
"Hmf," I said, in my best imitation of myself from Jr. High, "Can't I just sleep here?"
"You can sleep wherever you want," he said. "I'm gonna go get naked and get in your bed."
And that, boys, is how you convince a lady.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Things I learned the hard way
- Taking relationships slow is rarely regrettable. OK, there was that one time that you took things slow and the potential love of your life got hit by a car before you got a chance to see where things were going, but other than that? Draw out twitterpation. It's good for the soul.
- Just because your mom wants you to ask your boyfriend to be in the family Olan Mills photos she's scheduling doesn't mean you should ask him.
- If you're going to plan a vacation to Mexico with a new boyfriend and his family, be sure you're comfortable enough to ask them if you can stop at the store for some anti-diarrheal medication. You also might want to be sure you can handle a surf-related wardrobe malfunction in front of his dad. Especially if you're not so good at ducking waves (Note to non-Pacific NW readers: People from Oregon don't usually swim in the Ocean, it's too effing cold. So that whole counter-intuitive dive into the wave to avoid getting smashed by it thing? Some of us missed that lesson.)
C'mon readers. What did you learn the hard way?
- Just because your mom wants you to ask your boyfriend to be in the family Olan Mills photos she's scheduling doesn't mean you should ask him.
- If you're going to plan a vacation to Mexico with a new boyfriend and his family, be sure you're comfortable enough to ask them if you can stop at the store for some anti-diarrheal medication. You also might want to be sure you can handle a surf-related wardrobe malfunction in front of his dad. Especially if you're not so good at ducking waves (Note to non-Pacific NW readers: People from Oregon don't usually swim in the Ocean, it's too effing cold. So that whole counter-intuitive dive into the wave to avoid getting smashed by it thing? Some of us missed that lesson.)
C'mon readers. What did you learn the hard way?
Monday, September 21, 2009
High maintenance
I recently went out on a perfectly fine little first date. Date was on time, cute enough, and the conversation was good. So good, in fact, that we were both shocked to discover that it was nearly 2 a.m.
As I waited for a cab, he stood on the curb with me, close enough to smell. Smelled nice. We talked about seeing "Action Flick by That One Really Good Director," and he said he'd call me to arrange it, told me he would be out of town for a couple of days, but he'd be back by midweek. As my cab pulled up, I saw him going for a kiss, but I was feeling like dragging things out (anticipation can be fun), so I have him a hug, a big smile and a wink, and I was off.
A week later, nay, more than a week later, I got a text:
"Seen Action Flick Yet?"
I was a little confused about why it had taken so long to make any contact, but I shrugged and replied:
"Not yet."
A week later, I sent a text:
"Cat got your tongue? Well, no worries, I'll see it solo. Best, June."
He replied:
"No no, my friend. I just wasn't particularly enthused by your response. What time do you get off work this week?"
Really, internet? Would you go out with a guy who's that high-maintenance? I mean, what did he want, a smiley face emoticon at the end of the text?
Is there an emoticon that means "Fat Chance"?
As I waited for a cab, he stood on the curb with me, close enough to smell. Smelled nice. We talked about seeing "Action Flick by That One Really Good Director," and he said he'd call me to arrange it, told me he would be out of town for a couple of days, but he'd be back by midweek. As my cab pulled up, I saw him going for a kiss, but I was feeling like dragging things out (anticipation can be fun), so I have him a hug, a big smile and a wink, and I was off.
A week later, nay, more than a week later, I got a text:
"Seen Action Flick Yet?"
I was a little confused about why it had taken so long to make any contact, but I shrugged and replied:
"Not yet."
A week later, I sent a text:
"Cat got your tongue? Well, no worries, I'll see it solo. Best, June."
He replied:
"No no, my friend. I just wasn't particularly enthused by your response. What time do you get off work this week?"
Really, internet? Would you go out with a guy who's that high-maintenance? I mean, what did he want, a smiley face emoticon at the end of the text?
Is there an emoticon that means "Fat Chance"?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tweezed Out
**Today's guest post comes in from "G. Ross"**
I'm sick of DIW. Sorry to say, but I am. It has way too many stories from chicks who just rip on dudes. Makes me wonder if it's become a front for a bunch of angry dykes who don't know how to actually be with a man.
I digress.
I'm sending this story in about a woman I began dating a few months ago to try and offset all the male-bashing going on. This site used to be better. It used to have stories from guys about the very real phenomenon of crazy chicks. What happened? Where'd c.vance go? My father always taught me that if you're going to bitch about something then you better be prepared to try and fix it. So here's to you pops.
S**** and I began dating after a heavy night of drinking. Blah blah...one night stand...turned into a first date....and here we are hanging out four months later. She's a cool girl. Into a lot of the same stuff I am. Doesn't run her mouth too much and when she does, it's not complete inane blathering. So she's got that going for her.
Everything's been going great. Good sex. Decent conversation. Not overly clingly. Just great. Until a few nights ago when I walked in on her in the bathroom.
Now my pops also told me that women have bags of tricks that men should never, ever try to open. This is what makes them female, he said. Appreciate the magic but don't try to understand the magic. Apparently the bathroom is where women practice their magic. Wish he had told me that one.
We'd just finished having sex and S**** jumped out of bed to "freshen up" as women-folk like to say. Ok, fine. Whatever. About 12 minutes go by. My need to pee is pretty intense by now. I originally thought she'd take no more than 5 minutes. How much water do you need to splash down there to freshen up ladies?
How wrong I was.
I finally say fuck it and knock on the bathroom door. No answer. Dude. I need to piss. Bad. So I say fuck it again and open the door.
S**** is kneeling on top of the sink, inches away from the mirror, plucking hairs from her nipples. She screams when I walk in and falls off the counter. I am so startled I just stand there, mouth gaping.
She begins yelling at me about fucking knocking and bum rushes me out of the bathroom. I am too bewildered by what I saw to do anything except allow her to shoo me out. I go to the porch and take a leak off the side of it. Thank god for dicks.
We haven't discussed it. Thank god. It's weird though. The image in burned into my mind. Sometimes it flashes while we're having sex and I go to suck on her tits. Weird dude. Fucking weird. Chicks are weird.
I'm sick of DIW. Sorry to say, but I am. It has way too many stories from chicks who just rip on dudes. Makes me wonder if it's become a front for a bunch of angry dykes who don't know how to actually be with a man.
I digress.
I'm sending this story in about a woman I began dating a few months ago to try and offset all the male-bashing going on. This site used to be better. It used to have stories from guys about the very real phenomenon of crazy chicks. What happened? Where'd c.vance go? My father always taught me that if you're going to bitch about something then you better be prepared to try and fix it. So here's to you pops.
S**** and I began dating after a heavy night of drinking. Blah blah...one night stand...turned into a first date....and here we are hanging out four months later. She's a cool girl. Into a lot of the same stuff I am. Doesn't run her mouth too much and when she does, it's not complete inane blathering. So she's got that going for her.
Everything's been going great. Good sex. Decent conversation. Not overly clingly. Just great. Until a few nights ago when I walked in on her in the bathroom.
Now my pops also told me that women have bags of tricks that men should never, ever try to open. This is what makes them female, he said. Appreciate the magic but don't try to understand the magic. Apparently the bathroom is where women practice their magic. Wish he had told me that one.
We'd just finished having sex and S**** jumped out of bed to "freshen up" as women-folk like to say. Ok, fine. Whatever. About 12 minutes go by. My need to pee is pretty intense by now. I originally thought she'd take no more than 5 minutes. How much water do you need to splash down there to freshen up ladies?
How wrong I was.
I finally say fuck it and knock on the bathroom door. No answer. Dude. I need to piss. Bad. So I say fuck it again and open the door.
S**** is kneeling on top of the sink, inches away from the mirror, plucking hairs from her nipples. She screams when I walk in and falls off the counter. I am so startled I just stand there, mouth gaping.
She begins yelling at me about fucking knocking and bum rushes me out of the bathroom. I am too bewildered by what I saw to do anything except allow her to shoo me out. I go to the porch and take a leak off the side of it. Thank god for dicks.
We haven't discussed it. Thank god. It's weird though. The image in burned into my mind. Sometimes it flashes while we're having sex and I go to suck on her tits. Weird dude. Fucking weird. Chicks are weird.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
All about ass
*** Today we have an anonymous guest post with a little (though direct) message for the fellas ***
Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.
Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.
Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).
Thank you.
Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.
Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.
Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).
Thank you.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
More on staying friends with exes
A recent text conversation:
"I'll be home at 7 lover."
"I'm not your lover."
"What?"
"Check your outbox. You sent me a message clearly not intended for me."
"Oh, sorry. Don't know how that happened."
"Douche."
"I'll be home at 7 lover."
"I'm not your lover."
"What?"
"Check your outbox. You sent me a message clearly not intended for me."
"Oh, sorry. Don't know how that happened."
"Douche."
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Dear Serial: I humped my friend's husband
Dear Serial,
Apparently, a friend of mind just found out I fucked her husband. Thing is, it only happened one time, and it was years and years ago. I mean, it happened more than 10 years ago. It happened before they even got together, it was before I even got together with my now husband. Now, we’re all really good friends and have been for years, but recently, she’s saying weird stuff like, “sometimes you just wish you didn’t know things” and just being kind of strange towards me.
I told my husband about that pity-fuck years ago, he’s not upset. What should I say to my friend?
Thanks,
Married and not going there ever again
Dear MANGTEA (that’s kind of funny, at first when I looked at that, I thought it said Mangenta, which would clearly be a hot new color in men’s wear, much more masculine than purple),
Don’t say a thing. You did your duty and disclosed your long-forgotten pity fuck to your husband; it was pally over there’s job to tell HIS wife about any potentially-awkward fucks, oh, I dunno, maybe before they got married? That is, of course, if he was going to tell her. There’s a certain point at which, if you haven’t mentioned it already, you should just let the fuck lie.
Plus, what if you say something, and that’s not what she was talking about? Especially if he hasn’t told her? That conversation’s going to be fun. “Oh, you were talking about how you finally noticed that I dog-eared your grandmother’s copy of Gone With the Wind? Oh. Heh. Well nevermind all that about fucking your husband. Oh, and the “pity” thing? What did I mean by that? Well certainly did not mean that I’m more attractive than your husband or that he was super desperate in the period leading up to him getting with you. No. Not at all.”
Leave it be, Mangenta.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Want to tell her how full of shit she is? Do it. We dare ya. Send your email to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Snuggiesutra
There's a chance you haven't heard of the abomination that is the Snuggie (I think half the haters out there secretly want one):
And just for fun, and your edification, we'll include the popular parody video, too:
Well thank the lord for the internet. Because some genius has created a new Web site, the Snuggiesutra. Because I just KNOW you were fresh out of ideas on how to integrate the Snuggie into your love life.
Here's one position called The Tablecloth:
"She lies on the table. He wears the Snuggie on his front while the bottom end covers her. It’s just not a holiday without stuffing."
And just for fun, and your edification, we'll include the popular parody video, too:
Well thank the lord for the internet. Because some genius has created a new Web site, the Snuggiesutra. Because I just KNOW you were fresh out of ideas on how to integrate the Snuggie into your love life.
Here's one position called The Tablecloth:
"She lies on the table. He wears the Snuggie on his front while the bottom end covers her. It’s just not a holiday without stuffing."
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
If you're single, there's someting wrong with you
Katie Ett over at Unapologetically Mundane posted the following this week:
Did you catch that part, beloved DIW readers, about perpetually single folk? It bears repeating: "If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you."
That's what Katie thinks. What about you, is there something wrong with perpetually single folk?
“More to Love” is my favourite/most hated show on television right now. I was torn between it and “NYC Prep” on the first Tuesday night it aired, but after watching 20 fat women cry nonstop for an hour, I knew I made the right choice, and I’ve been making it every week since.
I’m not a person who believes weight has anything to do with love. I’m not thin, and I’ve loved and been loved in return by all sorts of men, thin and not-thin themselves. (But mostly thin, because fat people are gross. (Kidding.)) These big-boned ladies all truly believe, though, that their one shot at love is this 26-year-old spike-haired real estate developer who likes to eat and doesn’t want a woman who watches her weight.
And they all cry about it throughout every episode. Their skinny friends get hit on at bars. They’ve never had serious boyfriends. They’ve never been on a single date. And there’s a reason for that.
If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you. There, I said it. Don’t blame it on men being superficial. Blame it on you being a crappy date. Unless you live in the middle of smalltown Iowa, in which case I’m a little more sympathetic, but seriously, it’s probably still your fault, especially if you’re one of those assholes who scorns Internet dating. Whenever I hear some fat chick say, “I have no idea why I’m alone!”, I want to go through a laundry list for her, because it’s always so obvious. Even the guys who are willing to look past your weight can’t deal with your jacked-up face, your total lack of humor, your junior high vocabulary, and your skank clothes.
For instance, not a single one of the women in the two episodes of “More to Love” I’ve watched has said something funny. In fact, when Luke asks each of them in turn if they’ll wear the ring that signifies their staying on the show another week, each of them in turn says, “Of course.” I’ve been waiting for even just one of them to say “bitch, please” or fake like they don’t want it only to throw their arms around him and snatch it out of his hands a second later, but they’re all so worried about losing their “one” chance for “true” love that all behave like robots. Whiny, sobbing robots.
My boyfriend called the show depressing, but I really delight in watching these pathetic women mope around. None of them are actually the least bit interested in this guy specifically, as far as I can tell, and are only interested in him being interested in them. And he’s too pleased with the opportunity to grope 20 fatties to care. I mean, MAYBE the producers are hiding the parts where Luke and the ladies have deep, meaningful conversation about politics and religion, but it seems like the most intimate information the group has about Luke is the name of his dog.
I had a long-distance relationship like this once: the guy would want to talk about how interested he was in the sinking of the Titanic every single time he called me–I mean, he really, really loved the Titanic–and I just wanted to talk about how in love we were. But I realized I was using him, whereas these girls are planning their weddings.
And the worst part is that they make absolutely none of this secret to him. They tell him that they’d pursue their music careers if only they had better images. They tell him that they’re virgins. They tell him, “You’re my first second date.” And he uses these confidings as teachable moments where he gets to build their self-confidence by calling them sexy and telling them to believe in themselves. And they cry.
It’s pretty clear that in the end, Luke’s going to pick the thinnest/prettiest girl in the house regardless of her personality, and all the other girls who were using his choosing her as sole proof that there’s hope for fat girls are going to kill themselves.
I finally asked my boyfriend why I’ve been able to find love when these women haven’t, and he said, “Because you’re not psychotic.” Win.
Did you catch that part, beloved DIW readers, about perpetually single folk? It bears repeating: "If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you."
That's what Katie thinks. What about you, is there something wrong with perpetually single folk?
Monday, August 24, 2009
More on being friends with exes
"The girls who work with my new girlfriend said you walked by the other day and were glaring at her."
"The girls who work with your new girlfriend know who I am?"
"I guess so."
"Huh. Why would I do that? That's stupid."
"I know."
"Did you tell them that I wasn't glaring, that that's just what my face looks like?"
"Yeah, I told her you just have sort of a scowely face."
"Thanks, dude."
"The girls who work with your new girlfriend know who I am?"
"I guess so."
"Huh. Why would I do that? That's stupid."
"I know."
"Did you tell them that I wasn't glaring, that that's just what my face looks like?"
"Yeah, I told her you just have sort of a scowely face."
"Thanks, dude."
Friday, August 21, 2009
Boobies
*** Editor's note: Alecia in North Carolina's a rare breed on Datingisweird.com, a guest blogger unafraid to use her real name. Take that, Anonymous! ***
So I met this guy online. We'll call him Idiot. Idiot and I spoke for a couple weeks via email, IM, phone calls and text. He seemed like a really nice guy and we had a lot of common interests. He lives about an hour away so getting together for coffee wasn't as easy as all that, but eventually we did make plans for a Friday night.
So, I get all dolled up. Black pants, sexy tank top, little make up, little perfume, I'm good to go. I waited for him to arrive with excitement and just a touch of nervousness, but I honestly just knew we were going to have a good time. Idiot arrives and gets out of the car to shake my hand and say hi. I hop in and first things first, we have to make a quick trip to Target because apparently he needed to get his nephew some birthday present. We're on our way and literally, about a whole 2 minutes into the ride Idiot looks over at me and says, "Your boobies look nice."
I'm sorry...uuhhh...what? My inner thoughts: "You're 29 years old and you still say boobies? And secondly, what the fuck dude?"
I didn't actually say these things; I just told him to shut up. Idiot laughs, "Okay, okay, sorry." So I thought to myself, oh he just had a dumb guy moment. We get to the store and everything is good. I move on, I forget for a bit that he mentioned my tits and referred to them as boobies. We arrive at dinner and Idiot orders a mass amount of food which I find not only disturbing, but also hilarious as he just got done telling me how "healthy" he was trying to be. Umm, yeah, when you order the salad, it actually stops being good for you when you pile a half a pound of cheese on it, and bacon, and chicken, croutons and a half gallon of ranch dressing. (no, I don't care that the bottle says "Light" - you're retarded) Anyway...as we sit there and I begin to munch, him shovel, I notice that Idiot's leering at me; staring at me in this very intrusive way that has me tugging at my shirt again.
Finally I look at him and I say, "What? Why the crap are you staring at me like that?"
Idiot: "You know, it's funny...out of all the girls I've dated, you're not all my type, HOWEVER, I kinda wanna do you right now."
My inner thoughts: "Do me? Did he really just tell me over my Greek salad that he wants to DO me? Awesome." The people at the table next to us gasped and choked. I felt their pain.
Me: "Can you bring me home now? No, like...right now. Stop eating, check, car. Let's go."
So I met this guy online. We'll call him Idiot. Idiot and I spoke for a couple weeks via email, IM, phone calls and text. He seemed like a really nice guy and we had a lot of common interests. He lives about an hour away so getting together for coffee wasn't as easy as all that, but eventually we did make plans for a Friday night.
So, I get all dolled up. Black pants, sexy tank top, little make up, little perfume, I'm good to go. I waited for him to arrive with excitement and just a touch of nervousness, but I honestly just knew we were going to have a good time. Idiot arrives and gets out of the car to shake my hand and say hi. I hop in and first things first, we have to make a quick trip to Target because apparently he needed to get his nephew some birthday present. We're on our way and literally, about a whole 2 minutes into the ride Idiot looks over at me and says, "Your boobies look nice."
I'm sorry...uuhhh...what? My inner thoughts: "You're 29 years old and you still say boobies? And secondly, what the fuck dude?"
I didn't actually say these things; I just told him to shut up. Idiot laughs, "Okay, okay, sorry." So I thought to myself, oh he just had a dumb guy moment. We get to the store and everything is good. I move on, I forget for a bit that he mentioned my tits and referred to them as boobies. We arrive at dinner and Idiot orders a mass amount of food which I find not only disturbing, but also hilarious as he just got done telling me how "healthy" he was trying to be. Umm, yeah, when you order the salad, it actually stops being good for you when you pile a half a pound of cheese on it, and bacon, and chicken, croutons and a half gallon of ranch dressing. (no, I don't care that the bottle says "Light" - you're retarded) Anyway...as we sit there and I begin to munch, him shovel, I notice that Idiot's leering at me; staring at me in this very intrusive way that has me tugging at my shirt again.
Finally I look at him and I say, "What? Why the crap are you staring at me like that?"
Idiot: "You know, it's funny...out of all the girls I've dated, you're not all my type, HOWEVER, I kinda wanna do you right now."
My inner thoughts: "Do me? Did he really just tell me over my Greek salad that he wants to DO me? Awesome." The people at the table next to us gasped and choked. I felt their pain.
Me: "Can you bring me home now? No, like...right now. Stop eating, check, car. Let's go."
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Signs
***Editor's note: Today's guest post is from Peaches. Thanks, Peaches! ***
You’re not sure he’s going to come over tonight, but just in case, you wait to wash off your make-up until just before you go to bed, and then fall asleep with your phone on your bedside table.
You find a shirt of his at your place. It’s dirty and sweaty, and you smell it. The smell is intoxicating.
You avoid meeting other perfectly cute, perfectly single and perfectly available people.
You send an anonymous post to Datingisweird.com, hoping he’ll read it, and leave her.
You’re not sure he’s going to come over tonight, but just in case, you wait to wash off your make-up until just before you go to bed, and then fall asleep with your phone on your bedside table.
You find a shirt of his at your place. It’s dirty and sweaty, and you smell it. The smell is intoxicating.
You avoid meeting other perfectly cute, perfectly single and perfectly available people.
You send an anonymous post to Datingisweird.com, hoping he’ll read it, and leave her.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Chas
*** Editor's note: Today's guest post comes in from Louise. Thanks Louise! ***
Met Chas one summer in Moab, when I worked as a seasonal ranger in Canyonlands National Park. Ran into him at the Laundromat in town, exchanged stories, contact info. His claim to fame was that he had served as the body double for Brad Pitt during the filming of Thelma and Louise many years before. Now he was in his late thirties and beginning to show wear and tear at the edges. I was much younger.
He did in fact look remarkably like Brad Pitt in profile. Even from the front, except when he smiled - his face crinkled all the wrong ways. The weathered face and neck of someone who had stayed too long on the windy high plateau.
Soon after, he turned up at the Park just as I was getting off work. What I remember most was his cringe-inducing comment as we hiked the river path. "The park is so “sensual,” he enthused, "can't you just feel it." Later in the evening, more memorable moments. First, he assured me that he had recently been tested, undergone a health exam. Just a week ago as luck would have it, and he was STD free. Then he whipped out the paper work to confirm it. Just happened to have it on him. All the markings of a clinic certificate generated on a home computer.
Months later, curiosity kicked in. Rented Thelma and Louise CD to check out the Brad body-double bit parts to see if it was Chas. Only definitive shot was a headless camera sweep of Brad’s abdominal area in the motel scene with Thelma. Awesome abs, but prolly not Chas.
Met Chas one summer in Moab, when I worked as a seasonal ranger in Canyonlands National Park. Ran into him at the Laundromat in town, exchanged stories, contact info. His claim to fame was that he had served as the body double for Brad Pitt during the filming of Thelma and Louise many years before. Now he was in his late thirties and beginning to show wear and tear at the edges. I was much younger.
He did in fact look remarkably like Brad Pitt in profile. Even from the front, except when he smiled - his face crinkled all the wrong ways. The weathered face and neck of someone who had stayed too long on the windy high plateau.
Soon after, he turned up at the Park just as I was getting off work. What I remember most was his cringe-inducing comment as we hiked the river path. "The park is so “sensual,” he enthused, "can't you just feel it." Later in the evening, more memorable moments. First, he assured me that he had recently been tested, undergone a health exam. Just a week ago as luck would have it, and he was STD free. Then he whipped out the paper work to confirm it. Just happened to have it on him. All the markings of a clinic certificate generated on a home computer.
Months later, curiosity kicked in. Rented Thelma and Louise CD to check out the Brad body-double bit parts to see if it was Chas. Only definitive shot was a headless camera sweep of Brad’s abdominal area in the motel scene with Thelma. Awesome abs, but prolly not Chas.
Friday, August 14, 2009
What would you do?
I recently woke to find a Canadian in my bed.
I’d met him the night previous, his name was Gus, and he was in town for some Ironman or something or other, and he was delighted to come home with me. After some rolling around, I went to the bathroom to freshen up, I washed my face just as mama always told me to do, and I brushed my teeth. But there’s a problem with brushing your teeth when you have a stranger you met at a bar in your bed.When you get back to bed, and Gus wants to kiss? No, thanks. I mean, his mouth tasted like Jim Beam and porter, and I think a few cigarettes. Oh, yeah, and we’d split an order of onion rings. Yikes.
Sorry, I digress.
The point of this story is the following morning. I woke up and looked over at him and all I wanted was for him to go the fuck away. It was a Tuesday, for shit’s sake. I had to work, I had an early morning appointment.
I wasn’t sure how to get rid of him, and looking back, I don’t think I picked the most graceful method. I got up without the morning snuggle he seemed to be leaning in for, I let out my cat, and I plopped myself down at my desk and started IMing my girlfriend, who was already at work.
(bing)
Jesus, I have some Canadian guy here, how do I get rid of him?
(bing)
Canadian? Is he hot?
(bing)
He’s OK. Beside the point. I want him gone. What do I do?
(bing)
What’s his name?
(bing)
Um, Gus, I think?
(bing)
Did he go down on you?
(bing)
Focus, dammit! How do I get rid of him? And yes, he did.
Of course, the sound of clacking and binging in the living room was all the cue he needed. He came out of my room dressed, asked directions back to his hotel, thanked me for the good time and got out of there.
So I was wondering, DIW folks. What do you do to get a one-night-stand to leave in the morning?
I’d met him the night previous, his name was Gus, and he was in town for some Ironman or something or other, and he was delighted to come home with me. After some rolling around, I went to the bathroom to freshen up, I washed my face just as mama always told me to do, and I brushed my teeth. But there’s a problem with brushing your teeth when you have a stranger you met at a bar in your bed.When you get back to bed, and Gus wants to kiss? No, thanks. I mean, his mouth tasted like Jim Beam and porter, and I think a few cigarettes. Oh, yeah, and we’d split an order of onion rings. Yikes.
Sorry, I digress.
The point of this story is the following morning. I woke up and looked over at him and all I wanted was for him to go the fuck away. It was a Tuesday, for shit’s sake. I had to work, I had an early morning appointment.
I wasn’t sure how to get rid of him, and looking back, I don’t think I picked the most graceful method. I got up without the morning snuggle he seemed to be leaning in for, I let out my cat, and I plopped myself down at my desk and started IMing my girlfriend, who was already at work.
(bing)
Jesus, I have some Canadian guy here, how do I get rid of him?
(bing)
Canadian? Is he hot?
(bing)
He’s OK. Beside the point. I want him gone. What do I do?
(bing)
What’s his name?
(bing)
Um, Gus, I think?
(bing)
Did he go down on you?
(bing)
Focus, dammit! How do I get rid of him? And yes, he did.
Of course, the sound of clacking and binging in the living room was all the cue he needed. He came out of my room dressed, asked directions back to his hotel, thanked me for the good time and got out of there.
So I was wondering, DIW folks. What do you do to get a one-night-stand to leave in the morning?
Monday, August 10, 2009
Funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you?
I like funny guys. Silly funny, irreverent funny, sarcastic funny, dry funny—whatever. If you can get me to laugh, you might have a good shot.
However. Jokes can be tricky.
Funny: Starting up a game of truth or dare on the first date, especially if you take my dare to borrow a cowboy hat from a dude at the end of the bar and wear said hat wile you dance a jaunty jig for me.
Less funny: You take a truth, and when I ask where you want to be in five years, you answer “I think we’ll be married, and at least have two kids. Three maybe?”
Funny: You meet my dog, who’s usually an asshole, and she’s nice to you. When I tell you I’m surprised, you shrug and say, “Kids, dogs and gay guys all love me. I don’t know what it is.”
Less funny: You tell me, while lingering at my doorway at the end of the evening, that I “feel like home.”
Funny: You text me the next morning to ask how I’m feeling, and I admit I must have hit the gin a little too hard, because I have a wee headache. You respond, “Oh, sorry, I guess I got a little aggressive with the roofies.”
Not funny: When we have coffee later, and I tell you that I really, really, don’t think we should date, at least not until your divorce is final, or, at least until you and your wife are no longer living together, you tell me multiple times that I’m “breaking your heart.” Um, we met yesterday.
Waaay not funny: At the same coffee/letdown date, you start to tell a story, then pause and say, “No, that’s a really good story. I only tell that one in exchange for sexual favors.” I respond, “Well, I guess I won’t be hearing it then.” You respond, “Really? No? Shit. There goes my plan for getting you pregnant right away.”
However. Jokes can be tricky.
Funny: Starting up a game of truth or dare on the first date, especially if you take my dare to borrow a cowboy hat from a dude at the end of the bar and wear said hat wile you dance a jaunty jig for me.
Less funny: You take a truth, and when I ask where you want to be in five years, you answer “I think we’ll be married, and at least have two kids. Three maybe?”
Funny: You meet my dog, who’s usually an asshole, and she’s nice to you. When I tell you I’m surprised, you shrug and say, “Kids, dogs and gay guys all love me. I don’t know what it is.”
Less funny: You tell me, while lingering at my doorway at the end of the evening, that I “feel like home.”
Funny: You text me the next morning to ask how I’m feeling, and I admit I must have hit the gin a little too hard, because I have a wee headache. You respond, “Oh, sorry, I guess I got a little aggressive with the roofies.”
Not funny: When we have coffee later, and I tell you that I really, really, don’t think we should date, at least not until your divorce is final, or, at least until you and your wife are no longer living together, you tell me multiple times that I’m “breaking your heart.” Um, we met yesterday.
Waaay not funny: At the same coffee/letdown date, you start to tell a story, then pause and say, “No, that’s a really good story. I only tell that one in exchange for sexual favors.” I respond, “Well, I guess I won’t be hearing it then.” You respond, “Really? No? Shit. There goes my plan for getting you pregnant right away.”
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
PBR and AC/DC really is the way to a girl's heart
Today's guest post comes in from T-bird. Thanks, T-bird.
After a night of drinks and dancing that had gone nowhere I was standing outside of the club having a smoke. Up walks a pretty blond woman looking at her cell phone, talking to herself.
"Standing by the car?!" she proclaimed "What do you mean standing by the car?!"
I felt the need to join into this conversation and added my thoughts. "No cars here... maybe around back? There are plenty of cars over there."
"No, She's in the bar. Stupid T-9 texting bullshit."
"I've watched it kill relationships before," I said truthfully.
"Me, too. Want to grab a beer?" She asked and I was shocked. I had just come out of a failed seven plus year relationship and wasn't sure how to handle being single again. I honestly got a little scared and took the fastest, safest approach I could think of.
"Sure, but I'm on my way to this kegger and need to hurry so if you want to give me a call later," I handed her a crisp new business card. "There is probably plenty to drink if you want to save yourself some money. Bring your friend too." As soon as I said it I gave myself a mental ass chewing. Three is a crowd you dumbass.
About five minutes later she calls and her and her friend are on their way to meet me at this party. Now the party was real but had been going on for hours and it was late. I was fairly sure that it would be over or at least out of beer but I hadn't really thought about that at the time. We get there and sure enough its over, there is no beer and pretty much everywhere else is closed at that point.
"I've got a sixer of PBR in my fridge if you ladies still want that beer," I offered thinking that there is no way that these two woman would go home with a stranger for a PBR and two oclock in the morning. I was wrong. Not only did they want to come over they were very excited about it. I couldnt remember if I even had a full sixer in the fridge or what state my house was even in.
We get there and the friend immidiately starts riffleing through the cd collection and pulls out some AC/DC, put it on and turns it up... loud. Luckily I did have a sixer and pass out the beers taking survey of my house. I quickely pick up some dirty clothes in my room and throw them into my walkin closet. There are a lot of dirty clothes in my walkin, some smelly.
"Take me on a tour," Cute Blond asks and procceeds to take herself on said tour.
I catch up to her standing in my closet.
"You have horrible fashion. I just want to go in here and throw all these clothes away," Blond says and she is serious. You can see it in her eyes.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says I. "I do not, I rather like my clothes and new ones aren't cheap."
She start pawing through what is hanging up, bad mouthing every one of my favorite shirts. I step into the closet to make sure that she doesn't just start tearing them to pieces. Just then she turns around.
"You're cute," Blond whispers as she starts to pull off my belt buckle. I am at a loss. Maybe its because this is all so new to me or that I'm a little drunk but all I can seem to think about is that we are standing on and over every bit of dirty clothes from over a week.
Before I really knew what had happened we had done the nasty over my hamper full of socks. As soon as it was over she quickly said goodbye, woke her friend who had fallen asleep on my couch and left. I turned off the AC/DC that was still blaring and started a load of laundry.
After a night of drinks and dancing that had gone nowhere I was standing outside of the club having a smoke. Up walks a pretty blond woman looking at her cell phone, talking to herself.
"Standing by the car?!" she proclaimed "What do you mean standing by the car?!"
I felt the need to join into this conversation and added my thoughts. "No cars here... maybe around back? There are plenty of cars over there."
"No, She's in the bar. Stupid T-9 texting bullshit."
"I've watched it kill relationships before," I said truthfully.
"Me, too. Want to grab a beer?" She asked and I was shocked. I had just come out of a failed seven plus year relationship and wasn't sure how to handle being single again. I honestly got a little scared and took the fastest, safest approach I could think of.
"Sure, but I'm on my way to this kegger and need to hurry so if you want to give me a call later," I handed her a crisp new business card. "There is probably plenty to drink if you want to save yourself some money. Bring your friend too." As soon as I said it I gave myself a mental ass chewing. Three is a crowd you dumbass.
About five minutes later she calls and her and her friend are on their way to meet me at this party. Now the party was real but had been going on for hours and it was late. I was fairly sure that it would be over or at least out of beer but I hadn't really thought about that at the time. We get there and sure enough its over, there is no beer and pretty much everywhere else is closed at that point.
"I've got a sixer of PBR in my fridge if you ladies still want that beer," I offered thinking that there is no way that these two woman would go home with a stranger for a PBR and two oclock in the morning. I was wrong. Not only did they want to come over they were very excited about it. I couldnt remember if I even had a full sixer in the fridge or what state my house was even in.
We get there and the friend immidiately starts riffleing through the cd collection and pulls out some AC/DC, put it on and turns it up... loud. Luckily I did have a sixer and pass out the beers taking survey of my house. I quickely pick up some dirty clothes in my room and throw them into my walkin closet. There are a lot of dirty clothes in my walkin, some smelly.
"Take me on a tour," Cute Blond asks and procceeds to take herself on said tour.
I catch up to her standing in my closet.
"You have horrible fashion. I just want to go in here and throw all these clothes away," Blond says and she is serious. You can see it in her eyes.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says I. "I do not, I rather like my clothes and new ones aren't cheap."
She start pawing through what is hanging up, bad mouthing every one of my favorite shirts. I step into the closet to make sure that she doesn't just start tearing them to pieces. Just then she turns around.
"You're cute," Blond whispers as she starts to pull off my belt buckle. I am at a loss. Maybe its because this is all so new to me or that I'm a little drunk but all I can seem to think about is that we are standing on and over every bit of dirty clothes from over a week.
Before I really knew what had happened we had done the nasty over my hamper full of socks. As soon as it was over she quickly said goodbye, woke her friend who had fallen asleep on my couch and left. I turned off the AC/DC that was still blaring and started a load of laundry.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
On staying friends with exes
If you stay in touch with your ex, if you try to be friends, you still have to be careful. From time to time, in an otherwise friendly chat, you might find yourself having this conversation:
“So, how was your weekend?” he asked.
“Really fun, I hung out with [list of mutual friends].”
“Oh, really? It was fun?”
“Yeah, [male mutual friend] cracked me up all day long.”
“Huh, you and [said male mutual friend] get along now?”
“Um, yeah. When didn’t we?”
“Oh, well he talked some serious shit when we broke up.”
“He did, eh. Really? Like what?”
“Oh, just what a fucking bitch you were all the time. I was all, ‘Whatever. I don’t care what you think.’”
“Huh. Awesome. Thanks for sharing.”
“So, how was your weekend?” he asked.
“Really fun, I hung out with [list of mutual friends].”
“Oh, really? It was fun?”
“Yeah, [male mutual friend] cracked me up all day long.”
“Huh, you and [said male mutual friend] get along now?”
“Um, yeah. When didn’t we?”
“Oh, well he talked some serious shit when we broke up.”
“He did, eh. Really? Like what?”
“Oh, just what a fucking bitch you were all the time. I was all, ‘Whatever. I don’t care what you think.’”
“Huh. Awesome. Thanks for sharing.”
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Homeo and Juliet
Juliet sent us this snippet of an IM chat between herself and her husband. Names have been changed to protect their identities. Being married really is a little weird.
9:36 AM: Homeo: Hello
9:49 AM Homeo: How is your morning?
10:02 AM Homeo: Good. - I have my pedicure today at 3:30. Can you get the boys, or I can get them after
10:04 AM Homeo: Actually, it’s my pedi budget. I use my own money for the pedi, I don't touch your beauty budget including waxing, cuts and color. Also, if you consider how much money I saved over the last 8 months not having to get a haircut, I am totally in the black
10:05 AM Homeo: Just cause I care about my feet. Not my problem you choose to have grungy feet.
10:06 AM Homeo: How about scaley?
10:06 AM Homeo: Lizard like?
10:07 AM Homeo: I know you do. You’re the one who called me a pedi whore. You started it!
10:08 AM Homeo: The two are mutually exclusive. Go take care of your bush, I don't care. I'm not asking you to pay for my pedi. This leaves you bush money
10:10 AM Homeo: I dare you to tell [REDACTED CO-WORKER] about this conversation
10:12 AM Homeo: I figured that. She'll think it’s funny - and probably take your side
10:16 AM Homeo: My feet are very important - I'm on them almost all day. Also, its not my fault you won't shave or try some home remedy that might cost less.
10:17 AM Homeo: I have to go [REDACTED VERB INDICATING PROFESSION]. I'll talk to you soon. Love ya.
9:36 AM: Homeo: Hello
9:45 AM Juliet: Hola!
9:49 AM Homeo: How is your morning?
9:56 AM Juliet: Great! How's yours?
10:02 AM Homeo: Good. - I have my pedicure today at 3:30. Can you get the boys, or I can get them after
10:02 AM Juliet: Whatever. I'll pick them up.
10:03 AM Juliet: Just so you know, you have to live with the results of using my waxing budget to pay for your pedicure.
10:04 AM Homeo: Actually, it’s my pedi budget. I use my own money for the pedi, I don't touch your beauty budget including waxing, cuts and color. Also, if you consider how much money I saved over the last 8 months not having to get a haircut, I am totally in the black
10:04 AM Juliet: whatever. Pedi whore.
10:05 AM Homeo: Just cause I care about my feet. Not my problem you choose to have grungy feet.
10:05 AM Juliet: FU! My feet are not grungy.
10:06 AM Homeo: How about scaley?
10:06 AM Homeo: Lizard like?
10:07 AM Juliet: My feet are fine. I take very good care of them.
10:07 AM Homeo: I know you do. You’re the one who called me a pedi whore. You started it!
10:07 AM Juliet: Well, just know that if not for your pedi, I'd have a nice bush.
10:08 AM Homeo: The two are mutually exclusive. Go take care of your bush, I don't care. I'm not asking you to pay for my pedi. This leaves you bush money
10:09 AM Juliet: I guess I should say bush bucks.
10:10 AM Homeo: I dare you to tell [REDACTED CO-WORKER] about this conversation
10:11 AM Juliet: No way - plus he's not even here.
10:11 AM Juliet: I'll tell [REDACTED CO-WORKER #2] though
10:12 AM Homeo: I figured that. She'll think it’s funny - and probably take your side
10:15 AM Juliet: Damn straight she'll take my side! There's only so much salon money to go around, my spendthrift friend, and you are wasting it on your toes when it could be used to maintain more important regions.
10:16 AM Homeo: My feet are very important - I'm on them almost all day. Also, its not my fault you won't shave or try some home remedy that might cost less.
10:16 AM Juliet: (stony silence)
10:17 AM Homeo: I have to go [REDACTED VERB INDICATING PROFESSION]. I'll talk to you soon. Love ya.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Captain Squish
There are a few things I’ve done in my dating career that I really regret. But at least I try to learn from my mistakes.
One night I was out at my local watering hole drinking solo. I do that sometimes, especially when I’m single. It’s the best way to meet men.
So this sweet young thing starts talking to me, and he’s just adorable. He’s in a local band I’ve heard of, but never seen. I even know some of the people in the band, so we have tons to talk about. He’s very sweet, and five years younger than me.
The night turns toward the morning, and we’re still chatting. His friends, including his ride, come and ask him if he’s ready to go, I can tell he’s hesitating, so I offer to give him a ride home if he wants to finish his beer. He eagerly accepts my offer.
But here’s the thing: I’m having fun, but I’m really not DTF that night. Some nights you’re in it to win it, and some nights, not so much. This was not my night.
So by the time the bar closes, when we get into my car, I tell him, “Look, I’m enjoying your company, and if you want to come to my place for a beer, that’s cool, but I’m not going to sleep with you.”
He says he wants to come over, and he’s OK with the deal.
So we go to my place, drink some beers, and make out a bit. It’s getting late, very late, and I’m getting drunk. Somehow, and I honestly don’t remember the details, we decide to go to bed. Again, I tell him he’s welcome to stay, but I’m not going to sleep with him. Oh, yes, fine, fine.
I fall asleep.
Some time later, I wake up, and I realize my hand is on his dick. He’s got my wrist, and he’s pushing my hand into his dick. His flaccid dick.
“What the fuck?” I say, sitting up, “was that your dick?”
“Well,” he said, “I mean, I was kind of expecting more.”
I got up and turned on the light.
“No. Fuck no. You need to leave. Now.”
He pouted while he got his shit together.
“Can you give me a ride?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can walk.” I lived miles from his house, and I didn’t care.
But you know what? I realized right away what an idiot I had been. I mean, seriously? Don’t let a 22-year-old boy sleep in your bed if you don’t plan on fucking him.
But also, boys, don’t press a sleeping girl’s hand into your fleshy, soft penis. That’s just gross.
One night I was out at my local watering hole drinking solo. I do that sometimes, especially when I’m single. It’s the best way to meet men.
So this sweet young thing starts talking to me, and he’s just adorable. He’s in a local band I’ve heard of, but never seen. I even know some of the people in the band, so we have tons to talk about. He’s very sweet, and five years younger than me.
The night turns toward the morning, and we’re still chatting. His friends, including his ride, come and ask him if he’s ready to go, I can tell he’s hesitating, so I offer to give him a ride home if he wants to finish his beer. He eagerly accepts my offer.
But here’s the thing: I’m having fun, but I’m really not DTF that night. Some nights you’re in it to win it, and some nights, not so much. This was not my night.
So by the time the bar closes, when we get into my car, I tell him, “Look, I’m enjoying your company, and if you want to come to my place for a beer, that’s cool, but I’m not going to sleep with you.”
He says he wants to come over, and he’s OK with the deal.
So we go to my place, drink some beers, and make out a bit. It’s getting late, very late, and I’m getting drunk. Somehow, and I honestly don’t remember the details, we decide to go to bed. Again, I tell him he’s welcome to stay, but I’m not going to sleep with him. Oh, yes, fine, fine.
I fall asleep.
Some time later, I wake up, and I realize my hand is on his dick. He’s got my wrist, and he’s pushing my hand into his dick. His flaccid dick.
“What the fuck?” I say, sitting up, “was that your dick?”
“Well,” he said, “I mean, I was kind of expecting more.”
I got up and turned on the light.
“No. Fuck no. You need to leave. Now.”
He pouted while he got his shit together.
“Can you give me a ride?”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can walk.” I lived miles from his house, and I didn’t care.
But you know what? I realized right away what an idiot I had been. I mean, seriously? Don’t let a 22-year-old boy sleep in your bed if you don’t plan on fucking him.
But also, boys, don’t press a sleeping girl’s hand into your fleshy, soft penis. That’s just gross.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Dear Serial: Do not answer this question
Dear Serial,
So, I’ve been trying on line dating out. I’ve met a couple of people, even in person, but nothing major has come of it. I tend to be pretty picky about who I meet. See, if I know it’s not going to work out before it even starts, I think, why bother? But there’s this one guy I can’t decide on.
We’ve exchanged several emails, and even pics. But there are things that trouble me. He doesn’t have a job or a car, for one. He says he’s working on it. He isn’t really into the same things I am, he doesn’t like hiking, camping, biking, skiing. Those are my major passions. He is into music, and I like that, though. But his spelling and grammar are pretty terrible, and, worst of all, he has a three-year-old daughter half-time. I don’t have kids, and I don’t like them.
The thing is, I’d probably just say no thanks, even though he’s good-looking, if it weren’t for one thing. He’s black. I’m white. I’ve never gotten with a black guy before, and I really want to.
Does that make me a bad person?
Signed,
Just looking for a little jungle fever
Dear Fever,
I think so … but, you know, uhh … that doesn’t mean I think you shouldn’t go for it, not necessarily ... though, I’m not sure …
Hooboy. This is a tough one; let me argue this out with myself.
OK, so. You’re clearly objectifying this guy. And you’re doing it in a way that makes me feel icky, a way that brings to mind the long American history of sexual objectification of black men – women, too, for that matter. And that really makes the Liberal White Guilt alarm bells in my head start going off, loudly. With sirens and whooping bells and all that.
But, I gotta say, isn’t objectification what we all do when we date? I mean, you weigh competing factors, and some of them are bound to be shallow. Is it OK to be an ass man? I think so. Is it OK to be into big titties? It has to be. Is it OK for me to have never dated someone shorter than me? Sorry, little dudes, you’re just not for me.
So what if race is just one of your factors? You make it sound like this guy’s race is just one factor on your list.
And yet. Is this something you’d be willing to admit to him? I think maybe the answer to that question gives up a bit about whether or not it’s OK. I mean, if a guy I’m dating tells me he thinks I’m attractive, that he just loves my, oh, I dunno, my long legs (hey, this is the internet, I can be who I want to. ), is that going to bother me? Nope. If he loves red hair and green eyes, and that’s what I’m packing, I think: Sweet! If he loves my porcelain skin, is that too much of a stretch? No. (Though if he loves my pure Aryan blood, we’re getting back to danger category) But no one deserves to be condescended to.
And, doi, race is so much more than physical characteristics. It’s about culture, too. Sometimes culture’s a factor, and rightly so. I mean, I’ve been drawn to dudes because they were from Texas, or loved the fact that their mothers were English professors. Maybe you’re looking to widen your horizons. But that’s not the impression I get from the way you put the question.
In fact, looking at your question more closely, I see that you didn’t ask me if you should go out with him. You asked if it made you a bad person that you wanted to. And in that distinction, I see the opportunity for a cop-out. The question you posed is this: Are you a bad person for wanting to get with a black guy?
At this point, I think I’ve talked myself into a corner: No, not necessarily.
But the question you didn’t ask was whether or not you would be a bad person if you only got with this guy because he’s black.
Thank you for not asking me that.
In conclusion, let me just say this:
How Heath Lost His One Black Friend - watch more funny videos
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Email it to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com
Monday, July 13, 2009
A Note on International Dating & Sex
I'm currently traveling for the summer. I'm in the south of France at the moment but spent a longish weekend in England before arriving. I'm in no way an expert on anything, much less dating, but here are some observations so far:
1. Sluts dress the same whether you're in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin or Marseille, France. You can spot 'em a block away. Way too much skin showing, bold colors that foreshadow the fruity drinks she's probably going to vomit later, and a slight wobble when she walks because the high heels are far too big. There must be a Sluts 'R Us store that no one informed me of.
2. If you don't look like the woman above and a guy wants to hit on you, he has to be cool about it. Or so he thinks. Here's some lines so far:
a. You should come and live in Marseille. You can work for me, help me with the other guests. It's good. I'm not hitting on you. You're like a sister to me. You live here and we'll have a good time. You and me. You're very beautiful. Like a sister.
He said this while stroking my upper arm. I about barfed on him, but luckily another guest came in and I jumped up to offer my seat.
b. I love Americans. I am not like the other French people. They hate you. Not me. I love you. You should come home with me. I will show you why the French are the best lovers.
Two points for boldness. Negative eight million for creepiness, bad teeth, obvious signs of STDs, too much cologne, etc. al.
3. French teens are sexually advanced. And open about it. I was sitting at the beach, waiting for some other travelers whom I had come with, when a pqck of 11 - 13 year olds approached. We chatted for a bit and one of the other travelers arrived. We continued talking to them, but the conversation turned immediately to sex. They asked us if we were dating, if we had kissed, if we'd done it, etc. al. They then began to insist that he and I kiss in front of them. It got to the point where several were shouting at us to kiss.
One boy finally said, Why don't you take her home and just fuck her already? Thankfully I didn't know until my friend told me later. I wouldn't have second guessed slapping that kid upside the head.
I leave for Senegal and Mali at the end of the month. I'll post some observations from there. Hopefully they don't involve me drinking too much in a Muslim country and getting thrown in jail.
1. Sluts dress the same whether you're in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin or Marseille, France. You can spot 'em a block away. Way too much skin showing, bold colors that foreshadow the fruity drinks she's probably going to vomit later, and a slight wobble when she walks because the high heels are far too big. There must be a Sluts 'R Us store that no one informed me of.
2. If you don't look like the woman above and a guy wants to hit on you, he has to be cool about it. Or so he thinks. Here's some lines so far:
a. You should come and live in Marseille. You can work for me, help me with the other guests. It's good. I'm not hitting on you. You're like a sister to me. You live here and we'll have a good time. You and me. You're very beautiful. Like a sister.
He said this while stroking my upper arm. I about barfed on him, but luckily another guest came in and I jumped up to offer my seat.
b. I love Americans. I am not like the other French people. They hate you. Not me. I love you. You should come home with me. I will show you why the French are the best lovers.
Two points for boldness. Negative eight million for creepiness, bad teeth, obvious signs of STDs, too much cologne, etc. al.
3. French teens are sexually advanced. And open about it. I was sitting at the beach, waiting for some other travelers whom I had come with, when a pqck of 11 - 13 year olds approached. We chatted for a bit and one of the other travelers arrived. We continued talking to them, but the conversation turned immediately to sex. They asked us if we were dating, if we had kissed, if we'd done it, etc. al. They then began to insist that he and I kiss in front of them. It got to the point where several were shouting at us to kiss.
One boy finally said, Why don't you take her home and just fuck her already? Thankfully I didn't know until my friend told me later. I wouldn't have second guessed slapping that kid upside the head.
I leave for Senegal and Mali at the end of the month. I'll post some observations from there. Hopefully they don't involve me drinking too much in a Muslim country and getting thrown in jail.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
My Worst Date Ever™
Click here for a bit about another lovely internet date. What, you don't like racist, sexist, drunken cheapskate dates?
"I caught sight of my date, across the room, opening his leather jacket, taking out a bottle of Malibu rum and chugging from it. Stunned, I watched him return to his seat empty-handed. "They're out of beer," he announced."
"I caught sight of my date, across the room, opening his leather jacket, taking out a bottle of Malibu rum and chugging from it. Stunned, I watched him return to his seat empty-handed. "They're out of beer," he announced."
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Modern Girl's Guide to Being Dumped
If it’s been awhile since you've been dumped, ladies, here's a warning: A few things have changed, but others have stayed exactly, excruciatingly, the same. Here’s a short to-do list to get you started:
• Wipe away literal tears.
• Pull up metaphorical britches.
• Apologize for that text you shouldn’t have sent.
• Dust off your dating blogger pen.
• Change facebook relationship status from “In a relationship” to “single.” You can leave it blank for awhile, but why? Embrace it. You’re single.
• Update your Netflix queue. You don’t need to get his action movies, or the first season of Flight of the Conchords, which you’ve already seen but just rented so you could show him how awesome it is. Pick out every girly-ass movie you wanted to watch but had to bargain for. Been longing to finish watching Sex in the City? Fancy some cheesy musicals? Go for it.
• Get his shit out of your house. All of it. And don’t use the exchange of stuff as an excuse to “see how he’s doing.” He’s probably fine; or at least better than you are.
• Re-program your speed dial. It’s hard enough to avoid drunk-dialing. You don’t want to do it by an honest mistake.
• Send in a couple of the meanest things you want to say to dearoldlove.com. Don’t cc him on the email.
• Buy more wine.
• Find yourself a hot tub.
• Work out like mad.
• Rebound. Rebound early, rebound hard, rebound often. (With someone in his band, if you can pull it off, if not, someone who plays a different instrument will do).
What am I missing, dear readers? Or for the fells, what’s the same/different when it comes to your “dumpee” list?
• Wipe away literal tears.
• Pull up metaphorical britches.
• Apologize for that text you shouldn’t have sent.
• Dust off your dating blogger pen.
• Change facebook relationship status from “In a relationship” to “single.” You can leave it blank for awhile, but why? Embrace it. You’re single.
• Update your Netflix queue. You don’t need to get his action movies, or the first season of Flight of the Conchords, which you’ve already seen but just rented so you could show him how awesome it is. Pick out every girly-ass movie you wanted to watch but had to bargain for. Been longing to finish watching Sex in the City? Fancy some cheesy musicals? Go for it.
• Get his shit out of your house. All of it. And don’t use the exchange of stuff as an excuse to “see how he’s doing.” He’s probably fine; or at least better than you are.
• Re-program your speed dial. It’s hard enough to avoid drunk-dialing. You don’t want to do it by an honest mistake.
• Send in a couple of the meanest things you want to say to dearoldlove.com. Don’t cc him on the email.
• Buy more wine.
• Find yourself a hot tub.
• Work out like mad.
• Rebound. Rebound early, rebound hard, rebound often. (With someone in his band, if you can pull it off, if not, someone who plays a different instrument will do).
What am I missing, dear readers? Or for the fells, what’s the same/different when it comes to your “dumpee” list?
Monday, June 29, 2009
WTF guy
Today's guest post comes in from V, who first posted it on her blog, *uncorked. Thanks V!
June 12, 2009
a very awkward gmail chat to start my day. this is with a guy i went out with this past october. once. and now i kind of know why.
9:03 AM
him: hi, how it going?
me: need more coffee…just got off a three hour conference call! ughhhh
how are you?
9:04 AM
him: Ouch! just waking up on the first day of summer vacation
me: oh so jealous
9:05 AM
him: i am not, i did a tad too much celebrating last night
me: well, at least you get to relax today!
him: hopefully but its loos nice out
9:06 AM
me: finally!
him: yes
9:07 AM
did you really mean you think smoking is sexy?
me: sometimes
him: really? why
9:08 AM
me: cigars can be sexy – like just chilling out having a drink outside with a cigar. i love the smell
him: wow, i thought i was the only one out there that thought this way
9:09 AM
me: nah
him: wow crazy
me: brb
9:10 AM
him: ok
9:12 AM
me: i agreed to babysit my nephew tomorrow night and my sister is giving me instructions now.
9:13 AM
him: instructions for what?
9:14 AM
me: he’s only 3 months old, i dont know how to take care of a baby
him: oh gotcha
9:15 AM
so how was the confrence call?
me: long and kind of obnoxious, but productive
9:16 AM
him: thats good
9:17 AM
so do you know others that have “fetishes” for smoking or am i the only one?
9:18 AM
me: i wouldn’t call it a fetish, but i know some people that feel the same way. not sure there’s a support group or anything, but there’s some.
9:20 AM
him: me either, just new to it. just thought i would ask you because i am sort of affraid to look it up on the internet
9:22 AM
me: internet smoking porn? is this what you have in store for summer?
9:23 AM
him: haha no. i didn’t even know there was such a thing
me: i’m surethere is
9:24 AM
him: i wouldn’t doubt it
9:25 AM
are you into that sort of thing
me: what sort of thing
him: smoking porn
9:26 AM
me: not so much
him: wait so you are a little bit
9:27 AM
me: no, i just think that some guys look hot relaxing and smoking a cigar.
him: so you get turned on and one thing could lead to another
9:28 AM
me: I guess, but I wouldn’t say I would be looking up internet smoking porn or anything like that.
9:29 AM
him: i know i wouldn’t
i am not a prev or sick like that
me: ha, good ot know
9:30 AM
him: isn’t it
me: well, i suppose its time i get some work done
9:31 AM
interesting conversation to start my day
him: hope you don’t think i am weird.
ok bye
me: no, dont think you’re weird. have a good day – enjoy the weather!
him: you too
and yes, i think you’re fucking weird, but am afraid of becoming a lampshade so I’ll tell you otherwise.
seriously, this all started purely because i mentioned that a guy, chilling out, relaxing on a summer night drinking a glass of wine, or having a beer and smoking a good cigar was hot. i love the smell of cigars (good ones). and this is what i get in return.
An update came later:
June 22, 2009
him: hi, how are you?
me: i’m ok, a bit tired from a good weekend, but just trying to stay in with the a/c cranked.
him: yeah, it’s pretty gross out today.
me: agreed.
him: does it make you want to smoke?
me: i have to go.
June 12, 2009
a very awkward gmail chat to start my day. this is with a guy i went out with this past october. once. and now i kind of know why.
9:03 AM
him: hi, how it going?
me: need more coffee…just got off a three hour conference call! ughhhh
how are you?
9:04 AM
him: Ouch! just waking up on the first day of summer vacation
me: oh so jealous
9:05 AM
him: i am not, i did a tad too much celebrating last night
me: well, at least you get to relax today!
him: hopefully but its loos nice out
9:06 AM
me: finally!
him: yes
9:07 AM
did you really mean you think smoking is sexy?
me: sometimes
him: really? why
9:08 AM
me: cigars can be sexy – like just chilling out having a drink outside with a cigar. i love the smell
him: wow, i thought i was the only one out there that thought this way
9:09 AM
me: nah
him: wow crazy
me: brb
9:10 AM
him: ok
9:12 AM
me: i agreed to babysit my nephew tomorrow night and my sister is giving me instructions now.
9:13 AM
him: instructions for what?
9:14 AM
me: he’s only 3 months old, i dont know how to take care of a baby
him: oh gotcha
9:15 AM
so how was the confrence call?
me: long and kind of obnoxious, but productive
9:16 AM
him: thats good
9:17 AM
so do you know others that have “fetishes” for smoking or am i the only one?
9:18 AM
me: i wouldn’t call it a fetish, but i know some people that feel the same way. not sure there’s a support group or anything, but there’s some.
9:20 AM
him: me either, just new to it. just thought i would ask you because i am sort of affraid to look it up on the internet
9:22 AM
me: internet smoking porn? is this what you have in store for summer?
9:23 AM
him: haha no. i didn’t even know there was such a thing
me: i’m surethere is
9:24 AM
him: i wouldn’t doubt it
9:25 AM
are you into that sort of thing
me: what sort of thing
him: smoking porn
9:26 AM
me: not so much
him: wait so you are a little bit
9:27 AM
me: no, i just think that some guys look hot relaxing and smoking a cigar.
him: so you get turned on and one thing could lead to another
9:28 AM
me: I guess, but I wouldn’t say I would be looking up internet smoking porn or anything like that.
9:29 AM
him: i know i wouldn’t
i am not a prev or sick like that
me: ha, good ot know
9:30 AM
him: isn’t it
me: well, i suppose its time i get some work done
9:31 AM
interesting conversation to start my day
him: hope you don’t think i am weird.
ok bye
me: no, dont think you’re weird. have a good day – enjoy the weather!
him: you too
and yes, i think you’re fucking weird, but am afraid of becoming a lampshade so I’ll tell you otherwise.
seriously, this all started purely because i mentioned that a guy, chilling out, relaxing on a summer night drinking a glass of wine, or having a beer and smoking a good cigar was hot. i love the smell of cigars (good ones). and this is what i get in return.
An update came later:
June 22, 2009
him: hi, how are you?
me: i’m ok, a bit tired from a good weekend, but just trying to stay in with the a/c cranked.
him: yeah, it’s pretty gross out today.
me: agreed.
him: does it make you want to smoke?
me: i have to go.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Numbers
*** many thanks to c.vance for sending us this post ****
this is a story of love in numbers.
541 815.3504--- that's my number. used for a great many things.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm the only one always awake at 03.00; ready with colorful slurs or flattering lies.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm always awake between 02.00 and 04.00-- when the bars are closed and the only friends i have are cuddled next to people they love --and the flashing ring of my name lets them know no one has died, no one is in trouble... it's a displayed WARNING! HAZARDOUS IF OPENED on the screen of their flip phone. reminders of mistakes made and a lesson learned: never give your number to a drunk.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for $500 bail and a ride out of the cop shop.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for help moving because they fear the man they're moving away from--- standing by the door at 6'3" 200 lbs. to watch over her moving everything, staring down the X and not helping because of a hangover, a bad back and temper waiting for ignition.
most often it is used by creditors asking for $1.000's i don't have.
but, 3 weeks ago, it was used in a new way. it adorned the bottom of a flyer tacked to the middle of a bulletin board at PleasureWorld; a porn shop on 3rd street.
the 1st call was a weekend night-- 02.14 --from a man who had a restricted number and a gruff voice; one of those voices that calls Craigslist adverts looking to buy $5 refrigerators to compliment the other 4 in his yard. either a redneck or a classically trained actor schooled enough to fool these ears bred from South Carolina stock and born in Prineville. called to say:
-Yeah, I'm calling about the add you posted 2 days ago.
-I didn't post an add 2 days ago. You have the wrong number.
not given any thought until the 2nd call, 3 days later, at 16.14. a young man lisped sexual propositions into my phone. graphic; but with a trembling voice that sometimes squeaked. responded:
-I'm flattered, sweetheart, but I think you dialed the wrong number.
-Oh. Oh my Guh-a-od. Stho you din't postht that 1 add?
-What 1 add?
-Oh... I'm stho embarathed. Y'know, that 1 add? At PleaschthureWorld?
-Nope. I don't know. What did that 1 add say?
-Oh. Jezthus. I'm sthO sthorry. It... uhm. It sthaid, "20-sthomething man stheeking company. I'm diztheasthe free but you don't have to be." I'm sthorry, I thought---
-That's funny. And explains the call I got 2 nights ago.
-Oh. Did you... do you know hith number?
that's where i hung up. dialed 411 where a Southern operator told me i had the wrong city and state for DisneyWorld and there were no listed amusement parks in the area. only after spelling it out and yelling:
-It's a porn shop on 3rd street.
did she transfer me to a computer telling me it would dial 5.4.1. 3.1.7.9.7.2.3. for an additional $382.13 or 4 Euros. a woman stopped the ringing by answering with the business name in a voice that made me hope she had good penmanship. said:
-My phone number is 541 815.3504 and I believe someone posted an add down there as a prank. Maybe on a bulletin board?
-Let me see. 3504. 3504. 35--- oh. Yes. Here it is. So, even though this is your number, you didn't post it?
-Yep. Even though it is my number. Can you read it to me?
-Sure. It says, "NEED DICK NOW!" That part is all capitalized. Then it says, "Neat, clean-cut mid-20's male seeks 8" black cock. White cock OK if larger. I'm disease free but you don't need to be. Call: (541) 815-3504." Then it says, "P.S. I'm a bottom." So, you didn't post it? Even though it is your number?
-I did not post it. Even though it is my number.
-Oh. Okay then. I'll take it down. Oh! You know what? I bet 1 of your friends did it! Y'know? To be funny?
-I only have 2 friends and they're... hm. Of a different humor, let's say.
-Oh. Then who would have had your number, then?
this was a story of love in numbers. 541 815.3504 is mine. if you were kind enough to post an advert trying to find me sweet man loving, let me have your number to properly thank you
this is a story of love in numbers.
541 815.3504--- that's my number. used for a great many things.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm the only one always awake at 03.00; ready with colorful slurs or flattering lies.
some women have it programmed into their phone because they know i'm always awake between 02.00 and 04.00-- when the bars are closed and the only friends i have are cuddled next to people they love --and the flashing ring of my name lets them know no one has died, no one is in trouble... it's a displayed WARNING! HAZARDOUS IF OPENED on the screen of their flip phone. reminders of mistakes made and a lesson learned: never give your number to a drunk.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for $500 bail and a ride out of the cop shop.
some acquaintances have used it to ask for help moving because they fear the man they're moving away from--- standing by the door at 6'3" 200 lbs. to watch over her moving everything, staring down the X and not helping because of a hangover, a bad back and temper waiting for ignition.
most often it is used by creditors asking for $1.000's i don't have.
but, 3 weeks ago, it was used in a new way. it adorned the bottom of a flyer tacked to the middle of a bulletin board at PleasureWorld; a porn shop on 3rd street.
the 1st call was a weekend night-- 02.14 --from a man who had a restricted number and a gruff voice; one of those voices that calls Craigslist adverts looking to buy $5 refrigerators to compliment the other 4 in his yard. either a redneck or a classically trained actor schooled enough to fool these ears bred from South Carolina stock and born in Prineville. called to say:
-Yeah, I'm calling about the add you posted 2 days ago.
-I didn't post an add 2 days ago. You have the wrong number.
not given any thought until the 2nd call, 3 days later, at 16.14. a young man lisped sexual propositions into my phone. graphic; but with a trembling voice that sometimes squeaked. responded:
-I'm flattered, sweetheart, but I think you dialed the wrong number.
-Oh. Oh my Guh-a-od. Stho you din't postht that 1 add?
-What 1 add?
-Oh... I'm stho embarathed. Y'know, that 1 add? At PleaschthureWorld?
-Nope. I don't know. What did that 1 add say?
-Oh. Jezthus. I'm sthO sthorry. It... uhm. It sthaid, "20-sthomething man stheeking company. I'm diztheasthe free but you don't have to be." I'm sthorry, I thought---
-That's funny. And explains the call I got 2 nights ago.
-Oh. Did you... do you know hith number?
that's where i hung up. dialed 411 where a Southern operator told me i had the wrong city and state for DisneyWorld and there were no listed amusement parks in the area. only after spelling it out and yelling:
-It's a porn shop on 3rd street.
did she transfer me to a computer telling me it would dial 5.4.1. 3.1.7.9.7.2.3. for an additional $382.13 or 4 Euros. a woman stopped the ringing by answering with the business name in a voice that made me hope she had good penmanship. said:
-My phone number is 541 815.3504 and I believe someone posted an add down there as a prank. Maybe on a bulletin board?
-Let me see. 3504. 3504. 35--- oh. Yes. Here it is. So, even though this is your number, you didn't post it?
-Yep. Even though it is my number. Can you read it to me?
-Sure. It says, "NEED DICK NOW!" That part is all capitalized. Then it says, "Neat, clean-cut mid-20's male seeks 8" black cock. White cock OK if larger. I'm disease free but you don't need to be. Call: (541) 815-3504." Then it says, "P.S. I'm a bottom." So, you didn't post it? Even though it is your number?
-I did not post it. Even though it is my number.
-Oh. Okay then. I'll take it down. Oh! You know what? I bet 1 of your friends did it! Y'know? To be funny?
-I only have 2 friends and they're... hm. Of a different humor, let's say.
-Oh. Then who would have had your number, then?
this was a story of love in numbers. 541 815.3504 is mine. if you were kind enough to post an advert trying to find me sweet man loving, let me have your number to properly thank you
Sunday, June 21, 2009
One night stand gone wrong
Most women have the occasional low self-esteem low points. Some women live in that space chronically; we call that having “daddy issues.” One of my worst low points wasn’t daddy related, it was wicked painful breakup related.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Vicarious sex
Not getting any, but have an active fantasy life? Or do you like the idea of porn, but think all that ACTUAL humping is a little freaky? Check out this hipster fad, AIR SEX competitions. It's exactly what it sounds like.
This video is not work safe:
I know a lot of our readers are Oregonians, so how lucky are we that Portland is hosting its very own Air Sex competition this Saturday night at Berbatis. Please go, take video, and send it our way. Because that shizz is hilarious.
This video is not work safe:
I know a lot of our readers are Oregonians, so how lucky are we that Portland is hosting its very own Air Sex competition this Saturday night at Berbatis. Please go, take video, and send it our way. Because that shizz is hilarious.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Regarding Fatties
Dear Serial Monogamist,
So, I've entered the wonderful world of internet dating (and yes, I know, I should submit something of my own to DIW and I will do so after having a few liaisons under my belt). Anyway, so far so blech. Not a lot out there on the interwebs, at least not on the sites I've visited.
Anyway, I've gotten a few conversations going and then asked for a pic. Upon receipt of said pic, I've immediately been, like, "nope." I want to be really clear, and I'm not into lying, so in my next email I say "I just don't see it. Good luck to you." Since you're a member of the fairer sex, what do you think about how I'm responding? Yes, its entirely based on their uglyness, or extreme fat-itude, but oh well. I'm not just looking to date a nice person, I also want someone at least somewhat hot and I'm not going to pursue anything with people that aren't at least a 7 out of 10 on my personal scale.
Thanks,
Mr. Rodgers
Dear Mr. Rodgers,
OK, let’s start out with some linguistics.
I think you would be well-advised to be careful about using terms like “the fairer sex.” You know, like, um, EVER.
See, Fred, I know you’re not trying to get into my panties, at least not at the moment, but nonetheless, “The fairer sex?” I mean, when you use language like that, you’re likely to come off sounding like either:
A) That jerkoff with a goatee who tries to sound all ironic all of the time but who really just ends up giving away in a sarcastic, “who really believes this garbage?” tone what it is that he really thinks of women, namely, that we’re hyper-sensitive, weak-willed, and prone to hysteria (which, if you’re dipping your hairy little toes in internet dating, you’re only MORE apt to believe)
B) Some sort of renaissance fair guy who is, at this very moment, wearing crushed velvet pantaloons and drinking something you call “grog” that is really only apple cider mixed with Monarch rum, a guy who thinks it’s sexy to talk down to women so that it'll be this big fucking surprise later when you admit you just want to get tied up in a dungeon somewhere, but: Hey! It's no shocker! Your cat is named Azrael! We saw this one coming, dude.
or C) Some guy who just trying his honest-to-joe-sixpack-best to make a throwaway joke.
Even if the answer’s C, why’s it worth the risk of being seen as A or B? It’s not. I guess the moral of this particular rant is this, Freddie: Don’t talk down to me as an opener. Which, I guess, brings us on to the current topic.
Don’t string the fatties and the uggies along. There are dudes out there who can, and will, love some bigole chubba rolls and even a brilliant goddess with a cleft palate.
But: It ain’t you, babe. If you really feel bad about telling them off just after you get the photo, then try to get one more email with content out of them, and then suggest it’s something in that email that turned you off their fatty-ugg-ass-scent.
She’ll know anyway. But why put you both through the awkwardness of the in-person meetup before turning them down for being such hags? It’s painful, it’s pointless. Let their humiliation be electronic.
You also never said whether or not you were attractive. Maybe all you have to do is send a pic of yourself back to the ug-trons. Maybe then you’ll be the one getting the “yeah, I don’t see it, good luck,” e-mails.
Stranger things have happened in this neighborhood.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Just want to tell her to shut the crap up? E-mail her at seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Or not. Who needs you?
So, I've entered the wonderful world of internet dating (and yes, I know, I should submit something of my own to DIW and I will do so after having a few liaisons under my belt). Anyway, so far so blech. Not a lot out there on the interwebs, at least not on the sites I've visited.
Anyway, I've gotten a few conversations going and then asked for a pic. Upon receipt of said pic, I've immediately been, like, "nope." I want to be really clear, and I'm not into lying, so in my next email I say "I just don't see it. Good luck to you." Since you're a member of the fairer sex, what do you think about how I'm responding? Yes, its entirely based on their uglyness, or extreme fat-itude, but oh well. I'm not just looking to date a nice person, I also want someone at least somewhat hot and I'm not going to pursue anything with people that aren't at least a 7 out of 10 on my personal scale.
Thanks,
Mr. Rodgers
Dear Mr. Rodgers,
OK, let’s start out with some linguistics.
I think you would be well-advised to be careful about using terms like “the fairer sex.” You know, like, um, EVER.
See, Fred, I know you’re not trying to get into my panties, at least not at the moment, but nonetheless, “The fairer sex?” I mean, when you use language like that, you’re likely to come off sounding like either:
A) That jerkoff with a goatee who tries to sound all ironic all of the time but who really just ends up giving away in a sarcastic, “who really believes this garbage?” tone what it is that he really thinks of women, namely, that we’re hyper-sensitive, weak-willed, and prone to hysteria (which, if you’re dipping your hairy little toes in internet dating, you’re only MORE apt to believe)
B) Some sort of renaissance fair guy who is, at this very moment, wearing crushed velvet pantaloons and drinking something you call “grog” that is really only apple cider mixed with Monarch rum, a guy who thinks it’s sexy to talk down to women so that it'll be this big fucking surprise later when you admit you just want to get tied up in a dungeon somewhere, but: Hey! It's no shocker! Your cat is named Azrael! We saw this one coming, dude.
or C) Some guy who just trying his honest-to-joe-sixpack-best to make a throwaway joke.
Even if the answer’s C, why’s it worth the risk of being seen as A or B? It’s not. I guess the moral of this particular rant is this, Freddie: Don’t talk down to me as an opener. Which, I guess, brings us on to the current topic.
Don’t string the fatties and the uggies along. There are dudes out there who can, and will, love some bigole chubba rolls and even a brilliant goddess with a cleft palate.
But: It ain’t you, babe. If you really feel bad about telling them off just after you get the photo, then try to get one more email with content out of them, and then suggest it’s something in that email that turned you off their fatty-ugg-ass-scent.
She’ll know anyway. But why put you both through the awkwardness of the in-person meetup before turning them down for being such hags? It’s painful, it’s pointless. Let their humiliation be electronic.
You also never said whether or not you were attractive. Maybe all you have to do is send a pic of yourself back to the ug-trons. Maybe then you’ll be the one getting the “yeah, I don’t see it, good luck,” e-mails.
Stranger things have happened in this neighborhood.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Just want to tell her to shut the crap up? E-mail her at seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Or not. Who needs you?
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