Friday, October 22, 2010
A woman had expressed interest in me on a popular dating site by "winking" at me. I looked at her profile, and saw her pictures and life stories. She seemed cool enough. I didn't see too much in common with her except that she liked playing tennis, but wasn't that great at it, and wanted to play more. That was the same as me.
A few emails later we had set up a tennis date. When we first met we made some small talk before taking the court, and everything seemed to be going well. However, about 15 minutes into the game she hit a shot that was clearly out, but she claimed was in. The dispute was minor at first, but I didn't want to just let it go, and it escalated. Realizing that I was being a little too stubborn for a first date I tried to play it off and give her the benefit of the doubt and said something playfully like "Ok, McEnroe it was in." All hell broke loose.
She ran around the net screaming "You fucking asshole! What the fuck is that supposed to mean!!?." She began hitting me with her racket as hard as she could clearly aiming for my face every time. For about a minute I made every effort to run away and block her blows, but she was a little quicker than me and kept cutting off my escape route. After she cut my hand with one of the swings with her racket (intended for my face) I cocked back and bashed her head with mine with a fair amount of force. She then cried and ran away. Later that night, I sent her an email saying "Just for the record it was out." I still haven't heard about a second date.
Friday, September 24, 2010
My new Boyfriend had his Best Friend over and we set right into the task at hand: drinking everything in the house. After the usual pleasantries, we talked the usual BS, then turned on the music. What music? Whatever. Drunk people are very bad at making decisions. How much did I have to drink? I have no idea. I didn't care at the time. The beer was gone and the gin was hiding from us and there was MUSIC!
We were all three dancing in the living room and both the Boyfriend and his Best Friend had their shirts off and we were all three doing some lovely grindy-type thing. God Bless... um... whatever saint is in charge of the intoxicated. My Boyfriend was hot, his Best Friend was hotter: I could think that because I was really really drunk!!!! Yippee!! I decided to step out of the Manwich and maybe kinda...watch for a little bit. Yes, Boyfriend kept sexydancing with his Best Friend. Really hot, gay 100% Y Tu Mama Tambien moment right there in the living room. I finally understood WHY guys would want to watch two hot chicks making out at a bar. Young, shirtless... Amen!!! I slipped back into the lovely sweaty shirtless two man grindy thing because they were really taking this a little too far. I was making out with my Boyfriend... wait. Um. My Boyfriend was like a 29 waistband and... hugging this didn't feel like... HOLY CRAP NICE ABS!!!! Oh, sweet baby jeebus I was faced the wrong way. Yeah. But the Boyfriend noticed it too. Exit: Now Ex-Boyfriend. Me: Damn, what just happened? Best Friend: wanted to keep making out.
I'm not going to say that it was BECAUSE I'd been upstairs watching his porn while he was at work... but I had been. That was actually WAY more porn than I've ever seen. The one porno I had seen at the age of 20 made up the whole of my experience with the genre. I thought of it as field research, actually. The vast majority of it involved women with more than one man, so I guess a man's porn really doesn't have anything to do with his reality. Guys have always said that to me...
Saturday, September 11, 2010
I attended my cousin's wedding. Yes, the reception was open bar. There was a guy there and... truth be told, I knew he was on the Bride's side too because he managed to sit next to me at the wedding proper. We exchanged pleasantries and photos of the wedding.
Later, we ended up running away from the celebration and mindlessly making out on streetcorners throughout downtown Major Midwestern City. We have since done the other rather more naked things that people tend to do.
He is my father's brother's widow's great-nephew. There is no real blood connection so we think we might be okay (despite the fact that we are both the black sheep of our families). Oh, yeah, and I don't really look my age and he's 12 years younger than me. Still, is this illegal? He's 23... so it's probably legal in most states.
I had to draw a picture to get this one straight in my head.
OK, so I'm not really great at drawing family trees (And I totally gave him Justin Beiber hair). Basically, it looks like while you guys are of the same generation. I'd go so far as to say you're family, but I'm not pulling the incest card. I googled family relationships and looked at some charts written by people who understand this shit, and I don't think you're actually any kind of cousin, not even a cousin 14 times removed.
As for the age, yes. You're cool.
So, legally, we're all good.
The real question is whether it's OK, morally. And I say, yes. Not only is it OK, morally speaking, but it's pretty hot. Forbidden fruit, but without the yucky concerns of arrest or babies with arms growing out of their foreheads.
Fact is, people are supposed to hook up at weddings. That's what weddings are for. It's not about the couple. Weddings exist for the purpose of making old ladies cry, giving people the opportunity to dress up, and giving all of us an excuse to get wasted and get laid. Even if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative. Or, maybe especially if you're humping a way younger, almost-relative.
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Oh, sure you do. Send them to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
My girlfriend is a smart, pretty, kind, funny, loving and rad woman. She's my best friend and I love her deeply. Only problem (there's always one, right?) is that I'm not attracted to her anymore. I'm also not sure if I'm still in love with her, but I care about her so much and love our friendship that I don't want to break up.
I have so many questions. When you say your girlfriend is smart, pretty, kind and funny, are you, you know, saying “she has a good personality”? Like, does she have a very pretty face? Is she really beautiful on the inside?
You know what I’m getting at. Are we looking at a few too many relationship pounds?
If so, I sympathize. Not so much with you, but with her. Goddamnitall if it isn’t hard not to plump up when you’re in a relationship. All that love and acceptance. The joy of cooking for and sharing meals with your honey. But if those pounds have gone from pleasantly plump to too much cushion for the pushin,’ it’s time for a chat. A loving, kind chat. Though there’s really no easy way to go about it. You’ll likely hurt her feelings. Try telling her you want to get healthier together. You can use a line like, “And just imagine how well our clothes will fit!” Naturally, you’ll mean, “You can finally pull those skinny jeans out of the back of your closet!” But I wouldn’t suggest actually saying that line.
She might be pissed, but unless she has a really good reason for getting fat, like having a kid, or an injury, it’s reasonable to expect she keep in shape for you, just as it’s reasonable for her to expect you to take care of yourself. Now, you can’t expect her to stay the same size forever, we all get a little bit fatter as we age (and if that rule doesn’t apply to you, well you can just go ahead and eat shit), but within reason, it’s OK to say, “Let’s get to the gym, sweetheart.”
Now, if it’s not that something she can control has changed, but it’s just that you don’t love her anymore, why are you still with her? For friendship’s sake? She probably has enough friends. You’re her boyfriend (or girlfriend, I can’t tell). If it’s just that the spark’s not there anymore, have you tried to get it back? Do you care to? There are things that can be done. You know them. Try something new. Go on a trip. Talk about whatever your problems are.
But if it’s really not happening, why not just dump her? If you’re not attracted to her, you’re not doing her any favors by sticking with her. She didn’t sign up for a friend, did she? She signed up for a more-than-friends situation.
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Want to tell her how full of shit she is? Do it. We dare ya. Send a note to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com
Friday, June 11, 2010
Mind you, not as is not to say not at all. There's these funny little things like having to buy real beer (more than 3.2% alcohol) at a state liquor store, everyone is married with children even if they're significantly younger than me, and there's a rather schizophrenic personality to the citizens: you're either Mo-Mo and happy-go-lucky or you ain't and you're damn fucking proud of it.
I digress. Mormon soaking.
So here it is: because Mormons are against pre-marital sex, many of the "good" Mormons make it to their twenties as virgins. Heaven help them, they're hell bent on staying a virigin. But...we all know sex feels really really good. Add to it that it's forbidden and now you have a group of hormonally-saturated, unfulfilled virginal, twenty-something-year-olds going off to college, namely Brigham Young University.
See where this is going? How do you have sex without having sex?
You have "soaking," that is, you put your dick in her vagina but you don't move. Not even a single pump, rub, wiggle or jiggle. Nothing. You just lay there, soaking.
Like I said, I wish I was making this up.
I can't in good faith say I've ever experienced this phenomenon first hand because I'm A) not a BYU graduate and B) not fucking retarded. But, I have it from good sources (a few "Jack Mormons," also known as Mormons who were born and raised but no longer practicing, as well as an ex-communicated one).
There you have it folks. The solution to every religious believer's ultimate dilemna: how do you have sex without having sex. Mormon soaking.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
My first ever internet date. Yay! But me being me I should have known it couldn’t go well. And in fact I think I have managed to bag myself my very own personal stalker. WAY TO GO!
I ought to have clocked it earlier but I’m new to this game and his profile was very funny – dry and sarcastic – and his pics were pretty cute. His emails were short and to the point and he seemed keen to meet up rather than spending lots of time exchanging inane emails. My impression: alpha male, possibly quite arrogant but could be a lot of fun. So, to a backing track of alarm bells faintly tinkling, I agreed to meet him for a drink the following evening. And that’s when the trouble started.
8am. My phone buzzes. It’s a text seemingly checking I gave him a real number. Concerning. I reply with a one word affirmative.
8.10am. Another text. This time re-confirming the details of our date later on. I do not reply.
The uneasy feeling persists throughout the day but I am repeatedly reassured that everyone feels like this before their first internet date. Just go along! What’s the worst that can happen? Ok Dr. Pepper, fine, I’ll go!
6pm. Another text. ‘See you soon. x’ SERIOUSLY! I am going to bail if he sends me one more word. I send a matter of fact response. Definitely no kisses.
7pm. (we’re meeting at 8 and I am at this point waiting at a bus stop). Another text! This time saying he’s been delayed at work. So I ring him to find out if he’s a total loony or what. It rings out. I leave a message then head home. This guy has clearly never been out with a girl in his life.
8pm. Buzz, buzz. ‘Just leaving. Can be there in 5 mins.x’ Dude, did you not listen to my message – I’ve gone home for pete’s sake!
8.05pm. He rings me. It takes me FIFTEEN whole minutes to get him off the phone in which time he has repeatedly tried to find out where I live, offered to come and meet me near my house, asked me out for dinner on every single night of the next two weeks (it’s amazing how busy I am all of a sudden) and extracted a promise that I’ll check my diary and get back to him.
10.30pm. Unbelievably, he texts again. Not being insane myself I do not reply.
2am. Yes, you read that right, 2 o clock in the am, he messages me online to explain, yet again, what held him up. I will have to block his profile. He’s not going to like that.
So, I remain an internet virgin and very likely the object of some disturbed fantasy. I am also probably going to have to change my phone number. Do I feel just a little bit grubby and freaked out? Yes I do. Am I going to quit internet dating? Of course not! Or not yet anyway… *
*Since writing this post he has settled into a routine of texting me every morning at 9am with a new angle on why he didn’t make it to our date and the myriad ways he would like to make it up to me. It’s kind of comforting. I might even miss him when he stops.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Sure, he was kind of cute. Sort of funny. A stitch mouthy. But honestly, at that point, I'd go out on a date or two with just about anyone who asked. I felt like I had to give everyone a chance. I felt like at that point in my life, I'd made such bad decisions in relationships, it was time to challenge all of my assumptions. And who knows? People can be surprising. Right?
On my second date with Abe the cop, we were driving downtown, and I was in the front seat of his car, which, coincidentally, is the same year, make and model as my car. (Was that part of the attraction? That he had good taste in cars?) He wanted to stop by his house before he took me home, so I could meet his dog (He owned a house. I think that was a big part of it. I was curious about dating a responsible guy, I guess. Slightly older. Maybe looking for something long-term?), but as we drove down the left lane of one-way street, we passed by a cop car driving slowly in the right lane. My date slowed down his car and rolled down my window using his driver-side controls.
“What the hell are you doing, harassing some punks?” he shouted across me as I tried to impress the back of my head into the headrest.
“Abe! You son of a bitch!” the on-duty cop shouted from behind his mirrored sunglasses and moustache. “Are you drunk driving?”
“Hell yeah!” Abe laughed.
Then they proceeded to chat for another minute. Across my face. While I stared dead ahead, mortified. I live in a small town. Someone I know could've walked by at any moment, and I knew I'd be horrified if someone saw me in that position. I think that’s exactly when I decided I’m not the kind of girl who dates cops.
The problem is, you can't live it down. Months later, I was out on the town with a new one I was just getting to know. It was a sweet summer night, and we'd ridden our bikes, loving the gorgeous weather and anticipating a few too many beers. As we strolled and chatted, we walked by a couple of cops on the corner. I realized too late one was Abe.
Friday, May 21, 2010
She came into my place of employment wearing one of those Victorian corsets with leather and purple, frilly bullshit and stainless steel buckles; you know, for people to wear to the premiere of the next Twilight movie. Three quarters of her extremely ample, milky sweet breasts came bursting out the top of her outfit like steam escaping from a cartoon wolf's ears. Also, I think she was wearing a torn ballerina's tutu, which was sexy and cheesy at the exact same time. I call it Chexy. After having just had my heart used as an ashtray\enema bag I became Emotionally Unavailable Guy, which is exactly who sidled up to little miss clit piercing. I used the single greatest pickup line possible when working in retail:
“Can I…show you something?”
She said something stupider than me by saying, “I don’t know, can you?”
She was eye touching me in my bathing suit area so I went for it.
4 hours later I was off of work and she was knocking on my front door wearing a super tight t-shirt with a picture of John Stamos on it. Every time I stared at those amazing boobies there was Uncle Jesse, judging me. She was at my house for sex. 4 seconds after closing the door she grabbed me by my left nipple (my favorite one. The other one just…pisses me off) and led me to my bedroom. 10 seconds after that she was naked and I was giggling under my breath, for fear that my desperation would show through my mask of casual indifference. That’s when she slapped me in the throat.
“Did that hurt, little girl?” She growled.
Thwack. Again. Right in the Adams apple.
“Okay, that really…”
“Shut your face-hole, faggot and tie me to the chair.”
Simply to spare my poor vocal cords further torment, I obliged. I grabbed my desk chair and a couple of ties from my closet and trussed her up like she was in the bed of a pickup and I was going on a road trip. A road trip to Creepytown.
Once I tightened the straps she looked me in the face with big, wide, innocent eyes.
“Now I need you to hit me as hard as you can.”
I laughed. She stared.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Please master? I’ll be good to you if you do.” She purred, all sex kitteny.
“Now, by ‘good to me’ you mean…” I asked, fishing.
“Anything you want, master. Just make me hurt and I’ll wrap my body over every square inch of you.”
After a solid 3 or 4 seconds of thinking I said “Okay, I’ll do it, but does it have to be in the face? Can’t I punch you in the tit or something? Oooh, how about the kidneys? I’ll give you a hard shot to the kidneys.”
After haggling like I was buying a bracelet on a beach in Mexico we agreed upon an open handed slap across the left side of her face. And then I did it. Left a red palm print on her cheek and everything. 15 minutes later, after I had stopped crying, I untied her and she left without wrapping a goddamned thing around me. But that was okay. I wasn’t in the mood anymore anyway. I just wanted to call my mom and have her tell me everything was going to be alright while I fell asleep with my thumb somewhere near my mouth.
Anyway, I realized then that I had no choice. I was Sensitive Guy. I will always cry at episodes of The Office. Whatever, I’m fine with that. I like watching Dancing with the Stars and I’m not ashamed of that. Much.
Plus, if it wasn’t for my little trip to Creepytown I never would’ve met that Gothic Princess, who I married 2 years later. That’s right, I married the shit out of her. How’s that for a third act twist? I’d tell you that story, but you might think it’s weird. Maybe some other time.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
I recently found myself flirting with a really really cute guy. He was at his work. It happened to be at a phone place, so in order to test my phone service he called my phone... like three times... just to check. Now, honestly, the last thing I need in my life is ANOTHER guy to muck up the works, but Rebound Mojo is a bitch. Instead of dwelling on my overwhelming knee-jerk reaction to text him, I am going to write a posting.
Tips for Flirting with People Behind the Desk.
1. This person is at work.
2. This person is probably bored.
3. This person is providing you with excellent customer service.
4. This person probably has a supervisor watching them.
5. This is first and foremost a commercial or educational interaction.
6. Any personal information gleaned from this exchange is null and void for personal use.
7. The way to ask someone out on a date is to ASK THEM OUT ON A DATE.
Have a really nice day. Come back soon!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
At a bar the other night, I ran into the Captain. More than a year ago, I had met him through a friend. That night, I ended up at his house, on the couch, drunk, while my friend was getting it on with Captain's roommate (they preferred to call it "housemates" because they don't share a room, but finding it important to make that distinction just seems vaguely homophobic to me). At some point, I said I was cold, and he offered to snuggle. Sweet. Then I started in about how I was worried about my new puppy who was home alone in her crate, and he offered to drive me to my house to let her out. I accepted. We chatted while he drove me home, and I impressed him by knowing about Stereolab. When we got to my house, he impressed me by knowing who Frida Kahlo is. He stayed the night. More snuggling, a little making out. In the morning, we exchanged phone numbers.
For the next month, I threw myself at him. At one point I literally climbed into his bed and took my clothes off. Nothing. There was some making out, but I didn't even get laid. He never called me, and I refused to call him. Eventually, I gave up. We ran into each other from time to time over the next year or so, and I pretended I hadn't been totally rejected.
But now that I'm deliriously happy with a hotass new boyfriend (with a sexy accent)?
I ran into Captain at a concert. We chatted, he flirted his ass off. He acknowledged that he'd gained weight, referenced his new "man boobs." He said he'd since given up smoking pot. He had a new job and got to travel. At one point I said something particularly charming, and he smiled and said, "Will you be my girlfriend?"
"Seriously? You had your chance. Too late."
"I know, I really fucked that up. I'm sorry."
"Oh, you know."
"No, you can't apologize for something if you're not even willing to admit what it was."
"I'm sorry I blew it with you and didn't ask you to be my girlfriend. I should have."
I was surprised he said it.
"Yeah, you are sorry," I said. "I'm a pretty rad girlfriend."
Thursday, April 29, 2010
To celebrate, we are taking off our old look and putting on something a little more comfortable. Our vacation has rested us up and we're feeling rather sassy. (By "sassy" we MIGHT mean that we're still limping a bit and we used our last sick day for a hangover so we're so jazzed up on coffee right now.)
There is going to be a photo contest coming up... the voting will take place on the Facebook page, though so be sure to friend us there. We welcome your comments about our redesign... mostly because we need a good laugh every now and then.
As always, HAPPY DATING!!!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Greetings DIW readers! As much as I love to read the dating stories and tales of love, heartache and general debauchery on this site, today I thought I'd offer a peek into the world of ancient Hindu dating practices.
That's right! Apparently, the folks of ancient India were really into sex, and they collected their cultural sexual heritage into this little book called the Kama Sutra. The KS offers tons of advice on general living, marriage, sneaking guys into the king's harem and, of course, its famous sexual positions (for more on my exploration of said positions, you'll have to check out thekamamama.com).
Today's discourse, though, has to do with first sex, that is, the first sexual encounter between a married couple. After courtship and wooing (and marriage, but whatever), the KS suggests there should be a waiting period during which the man is to "create confidence" in the girl before the couple gets to roll in ze hay. Keep in mind that despite their apparent sexual enlightenment, ancient Hindus lived in a patriarchal world where social norms included the caste system, marrying young and polygamy, among other practices now considered taboo (but they thought women were too good for blow jobs. Huh). That doesn't mean all of the advice offered by the Kama Sutra is bad (hello, Lotus position!), just that you have to consider it in its cultural context.
OK, on to some dating tips from the KS:
- After the wedding/wooing, sleep on the floor for three days and abstain from sex and salted foods. One KS contributor suggests the man refrain from speaking during this time. Critics say the girl might despise him as a eunuch if he does this, but I don't know ... I've never despised a guy who knows how to shut it when necessary, nor suspected he was a eunuch.
- For the next SEVEN DAYS, bathe amidst the sounds of auspicious musical instruments and decorate yourselves. Harps and vajazzling, y'all!
- Finally, after 10 days, the man should start plying the woman with his sexy ways -- embraces, lovely words. I'm all in favor of slow courtship, but seriously? Who would want to spend the first 10 days after the wedding being celibate? Oh, right, maybe the teenage girl who's afraid of the virtual stranger her parents just married her off to.
- If the girl is reluctant, the man should beg, sweet-talk and, if all else fails, get down on his knees, "for it is a universal rule that however bashful or angry a woman may be, she never disregards a man's kneeling at her feet." Finally, some good advice.
- After a little canoodling, the man should induce the woman into his lap, but if she still refuses his advances, he should frighten her by threatening to mark her lips and breasts with his teeth and nails, to do the same to his own body, and to then tell all his friends that she did it. Wait, what? That doesn't even make sense? How would he bite his own breasts? Wouldn't his friends just think he was a kinky mofo? And of course, that kind of play is definitely for consensual partners only.
- If she's feelin' it, the man should now shampoo his wife's thighs. That's right, thighs. Because what's sexier than a thigh shampoo?
- While engaged in thigh shampooing, the man should cop a feel of the woman's yoni, naturally.
- Then, after he shares his feelings of love, his hopes for the future and his promise of fidelity with her, they can get down to business. But only in a way so as not to frighten her, the KS says.
- Finally, the Kama Sutra offers some parting advice for men. It suggests men take the middle path with women, neither implicitly following the inclination of the girl, nor wholly opposing her. It suggests the man who increases a woman's honor is an object of love, whereas he who neglects a woman is thought of as a beast ignorant of the workings of the female mind. And, the KS wisely warns against rape, saying a woman who is forcibly enjoyed will begin to hate the man who has taken advantage of her.
Lots to consider in the Kama Sutra. Some if it has no place in the modern world, where women choose as much as men. But sometimes, the ancients got it right. Slow, sexy courtship with baths, music and decorating of bodies? Yes, please.
Oh, and thigh shampooing. Definitely thigh shampooing.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
He works at my favorite "local" and has always gone out of his way to make me feel special. Especially when I'm at the "local" on one of my many stumblingly boring or confusingly misdirected attempts to date here in Small Town. He's recently untangled with his Other ...and ask me out. Me: elated.
He picked me up at my house. We went to a few places and had he bought some edibles and drinkables, opening doors for me and all the nice things. Big Smile. We've already established an easy banter between us and it was turning into one of the best dates I have been on since leaving the East Coast. We got back to my house and are rounding the side of the house in the dark and I trip. I'm clumsy. I recover myself (I thought) only to find myself plunging down the stairs that lead to the basement. It's so dark that he stands there asking "where did you go?"
Sprained ankle... not just a little sprained. I broke my heel bone into three pieces. I tore the top half of my fingernail off and was bleeding everywhere. He Band-Aided me and fed me Tylenol. Arranged the pillows so my ankle was propped up and put a bag of frozen veggies on it to ice it. In the morning he brought me the sweetest thing I have ever been given after a catastrophic first date: crutches. All I have to say here is: YAY FOR MEN WHO STILL KNOW HOW TO BEHAVE LIKE GENTLEMEN.
We have scheduled a re-do. No more Redneck Dates: I's already crippled on the first date so's I cain't runs away no more. For the second date, we'll explore some of the finer points of French cookery.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Send us stories! It's Valentine's Day soon and I know ya'll got some messed up Valentine's stories.
Best one gets $5 from me personally.
Friday, January 22, 2010
You roll over in the night, you want to be the big spoon, so you cup your body to his, put your arm around his waist, then let it rest on his delightful chest. You nuzzle your nose between his shoulder blades, and you both settle in to the comfort of a warm body. Then: Pffft. Against your thigh.
Here's the question: Is it rude to roll over? Do you just pretend it didn't happen?
Monday, January 18, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
I wanted desperately to tell him I loved him, but I was terrified of saying it first. So I moped, and pined, and whenever he said anything that began with “I love …” I froze in anticipation. The sentences always ended with something like “this slice of pizza” “this weed” or “Hegel’s dialectical method.” Maybe, if I was lucky, it was “I love your ass.”
So finally, one drunken evening (Now, I can’t remember how far along the relationship was at this point. I felt like we’d been together FOREVER and would be together FOREVER and that my soul was his soul, and that there was no other love like ours, but in reality it had probably been a month. That’s the equivalent of a decade when you’re 15), we were laughing about something, and I did something really funny, I have no idea what, and he laughed, “I love you!” And apparently the look of soaring joy on my face was too much for him, and he explained that he didn’t mean it THAT way. So, naturally, I cried.
And since then, in relationships, I still have never said the “L” word first. Not-a-once. A lot of women I know don’t. I will ask a man out, I will tell him where to put it (literally and figuratively), I’ll take all kinds of risks in relationships. But the “L” word? No way.
What about you, gentle readers? Do you say the L word first? What’s it like?
p.s. Do any of y’all do this twitter thing? I do. Find me at Twitter.com/serialmono