Messy First Impressions

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.

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.

Cats break up, too

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.

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

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