Blondie and the hottie from the gym

** Today we have a guest post from Blondie, who has agreed to share some of her dating adventures in the city. Like some people we know (ahem) Blondie is enjoying a fairly fresh foray into singledom, making good use of the wonders and joys of the Internet. ***

Friday night was supposed to be my dating night off. Thursday night I had been with a couple I see, and I had a date on Saturday with a guy I've been seeing for a little while - so Friday I was going relax and give my "body" a rest.

I ended up going out to the bars with a couple friends. The plan was just to have a beer or two, go home and watch a movie. Well, I get to the bar and we hang out a bit and I realize that this guy who I've had a massive crush on at the gym is there. Not some guy I've seen - but a hot 6 foot 7 inch tall basketball player I've been watching while I cool down on the track for the last 5 years.

I tell my friend the story and he talks me into talking to the guy. Long story short - I talk to him and end up going home with him that night. Yep - I got to sleep with my gym crush. But that's not all.

Side note - this gym guy ends up not being very bright. It was an interesting situation for me - I felt like one of those guys who sleeps with hot dumb chicks. While we were hanging out post sex, I was found myself having an internal debate about hotness vs. intellect. Does his hotness make up for lack of smarts? Would I ever dare bring this guy around my friends? Would I be comfortable keeping a guy around for sex just because he was hot, even if he wasn't that interesting to talk to? (I appreciate that this might make me sound like an asshole but I have smart friends and they would call me out on this.)

But, the sex is fun, I have a good time. And, oddly, after sex, he hung out completely naked until I left. He was up walking around, doing all kinds of things. I thought it was cool how comfortable he was, most guys throw on a pair of boxers or something. Though I guess I could have done without him leaving the door open and looking at and speaking to me while he pissed.

As we're hanging out afterwards, he asks if I want to spend the night. I say no because, quite frankly, his apartment was kind of a shit-hole. I don't quite understand how a 32-year-old guy with a professional-type job could live like that. Anyway, I say no thanks and go home at about 3:30am or so. When I got home, I sent him a text saying I made it home safely. He didn't text back until the next day, but this is the conversation:

Me - I made it home safely.

Him - Who is this?

Me - Uh ... Blondie. The girl you slept with last night.

Him - Haha, no seriously, who is this?

Me - I am serious. Don't you remember?

Him - I'm in Seattle with my fiance. I think you have the wrong number

Me - HA! You're right. Wrong number. That's hilarious.

Well.

It turns out that I don't have the right phone number for this guy. He just gave me his number, I didn't give him mine. So now, not only did I hook up with the hot dumb guy, but I'm the one who never called again. Part of me feels a tad bad about that, but part of me thinks it's a little funny, if a bit of a bummer because I would like the option of sleeping with him again ... but c'est la vie.

Going Out In Anchorage, AK

I recently moved to Anchorage for a job and was curious what it'd be like living in a place where the male to female ratio is skewed, to put it mildly.

"You're going to get raped. I heard they pay for women they're so desperate for pussy up there," said one idiot at a bar when I told her where I was moving.

"8-to-1 guys to girls. You don't even have to be hot to get proposed to I heard," said her friend.

"Get a gun," was my brother's request before boarding the plane.

And with that sage wisdom, I went to a local watering hole to meet some new gal friends two nights ago. I didn't make any effort whatsoever to look cute. In fact, I did the exact opposite. No shower after two days of skiing and hat wearing. I didn't even change out of the sports bra from said ski. I managed some deodorant and a different hat, but not much else. I chose one of my more pointed t-shirts (a bright red shirt called "burning bridges" with an image of a guy burning the bridge between him and a woman on the other side). What the hell anyway with all that stupid romance shit.

We saddled up to the bar and of course the three old guys sitting to the right of us starting making conversation, but they were fairly easy to not engage. I find old guys far more fun to drink with than younger dudes mainly because they're harmless and have funnier stories. If you tell them you're not interested, they're not butt hurt and they'll often still buy you a drink for being cool enough to not be a complete bitch. Younger guys on the other hand...sigh.

There was one of said younger versions of the male species to the left of my friend. I noticed him glancing at us every 30-45 seconds and looking for a way to insert himself in the conversation. I also noticed him staring at my tits every time he looked over. Did I mention I was wearing a t-shirt and sports bra and am not exactly a Victoria's Secret model? I have pretty much no boobs to speak of, particularly in a sports bra and t-shirt so I was curious what he kept staring at.

He finally figures out how to interrupt our convo with some asinine comment. He asks me a question, to which I ask him why he's been staring at my tits for 40 minutes. With absolutely not a moment's hesitation, he shifts his gaze to my general torso area and does not look up while responding that he's trying to figure out what my shirt means.

"Really? I'm confused how a bridge burning with a man on one side and a woman on the other is confusing."

"Oh. That's a guy, huh?"

"Yep. A guy. Burning a bridge. The shirt's called burning bridges, weird huh?"

The entire time, he has not once lifted his gaze to make eye contact.

"You're still staring at my tits dude."

"I know. I just don't really get your shirt."

I didn't engage him any further except to make a rather horrible, politically incorrect joke a few minutes later. I wanted to give the angry, lesbian feminist vibe because that's never failed in the past to scare guys away, but this guy didn't seem to mind neither my condescension nor general insulting of his ethnic identity. He asked what we were up to later that night.

Might have to take my brother's advice after all.

Lessons on life and love from Beyonce

I recently met my good friend's sister. The way the visit worked out, the sister and I had some time to hang out the following day, after my friend left to fly back to Oregon.

Over a glass of wine, the three of us sat talking, and my friend's sister told me that whenever I woke up in the morning, we could go out and get breakfast together, and she'd be happy to show me around her town a little bit, as I hadn't spent much time there.

"And of course, if you'd like, we can go ring shopping! I know some great jewelry shops!"

Whoa. Wha?

Back up a little bit. I'm in a relationship. Have been for about 2.5 years. I'm 30. In the last year, I moved across the country to be with him. So, would I like to go ahead and get - if not hitched - engaged? Sure. And I don't see the point in pretending that's not the case. I don't try to advertise or bitch about it, but I'm not going to lie about it - definitely not to my closest friends. But, now I have to wonder.

I mean, I figured my friend would give her sister some backstory on me. She knew where my friend and I had met, she knew the basics of why I live in the south ... but is "she's waiting on her slacker boyfriend to propose" on the short list of details about me that I expect people to hear before they meet me? Yikes.

It brought me back to a conversation my boyfriend and I had before we moved out here. Two friends of mine had been together for 10 years, and I knew she was ready to get things moving. Get married, think about starting a family. So when I saw him, and she wasn't around, I'd nudge. And I wasn't subtle.

"Dude. What are you waiting for? When are you going to put a ring on it?"

It made me feel annoying, but I checked with my girlfriend, and she was totally OK with this type of encouragement. [I mean, I could write another blog post about why and how it is that there are certain decisions in hetero relationships for which women are basically removed from the decision-making process. You can't nag. You can't push. You're not supposed to complain, lest you be one of those gross old-fashioned girls who actually - gasp - wants to get married. Yuck. We're not supposed to care. And it's not like you could do something crazy like ask him.]

When my b.f. heard me talk about this couple, and about how the fellow needed to get his shit together, he wondered if I was trying to give him a hint.

"No, dear. They've been together for a decade. It's a different situation."

But that conversation was a year and a half ago. Are things different? Is living in the south affecting my views on marriage? Out here, people give me a sidelong look when I mention that I moved across the country to live with my boyfriend. People check my hand when I talk about him. I've literally been told that Jesus wants me to get married. His stepmother told him it bothers her that he hasn't at least bought me a ring.

I don't know. But I do know this: I told my boyfriend the ring shopping story when I got home. I'll let him decide what it all means.

Dignity

Editors' Note: My friend is the drug dealer. Rad.

Little comforts

I’ve been thinking a lot about exes lately.

And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m not interested in that. Really, can’t we please, for just a moment, admit, all together, that it’s weird, so very weird, to have exes in the universe? I don’t want to pretend that I’ve moved on—which I have, in a sense. I’m not stopped, I’m not waiting, or weeping. I’m just thinking.

Isn’t it strange that there are people in the world that you used to lay next to every night (if you’re a cohabitating type of serial monogamist, at least), who now have these lives that don’t involve you? They have wives and girlfriends and fiancés and children, and you have new loves, and you live somewhere else, and why does that have to mean you can’t still call his mother? Why does that have to mean that you’re a stalker if you want to see a photo of his new family?

One reason I’ve been thinking is because I’ve been hearing a lot from an ex who was an item so long ago I hesitate to think of him as more than a very old friend. I was visiting home not long ago, and he randomly called. He didn’t even know I was in town, but he instantly started pushing to see me. I agreed to dinner at his intense insistence—he hinted at some sort of trauma. He promised he’d be pathetic, and offered to buy.

We got in the car, and I said, “So. What was all that? What’s up with you?”

“Right,” he said. “So, my wife left me.”

Of course she did. Although there was one point in my life that I’d considered him my backup plan, my safety, in case my life didn’t go the way it expected, I gave up that plan about four years ago when he told me he was having a baby. Since then, I’d been firmly in the camp that supported his relationship, and I’d even been charmed by his wife – and while we’re being honest, I’ll just put it out there. I’m prettier than his wife.

“Oh, buddy,” I said. “That sucks.”

“For her teacher,” he said.

“Yikes,” I said.

“Who is a lady,” he said.

“Oh, fuck.”

At dinner, he told me the whole sordid story. It’s pretty fucking tragic.

He knew our server, it was why he’d picked this particular restaurant. When the server walked away, my friend confessed, “he doesn’t know yet.”

This break had been sudden, and the whole thing had only gone down about three weeks prior. My friend described to me how he understood depression for the first time in his life.

“I wake up in the morning, and I can’t think of a reason to get out of bed. And even when I can, I just can’t think of how in the world I’m going to make myself do it.”

I hugged him, and got a little drunk with him, and said what little, weak things you can say to comfort a friend whose family has just been torn apart. Mostly I listened to him. And when our server asked what the wife and kid were up to, he got the bad news. When our bill arrived, I think it was $5.

“I’ve been getting a lot of free meals lately,” he confessed.

What little things we can do to comfort a friend.

Later, after I’d left town again, he texted me, saying he wished he’d been able to spend more time with me when I was in town.
“I have a lot of friends here, but none like you,” he said.

I’m not sure what he meant by that. In a literal sense, he doesn’t have any other friends who took his virginity. In another sense, he probably doesn’t have any other friends who have considered making a life with him. I’ve thought about what our kids would look like. I’ve considered whether I would take his last name.

But he probably didn’t mean any of those things.

Am I crazy or is he creepy?

I can't tell. I was just sitting there, minding my business late in the week, trying very hard not to beat my head against my keyboard, when an IM popped up on my screen.

He says:
Hey! Whatre you doing?

She says:
whipping some stuff out before I get out of here
and then tomorrow's FRIDAY

He says:
Yes it is!!! WOO HOO!!!!
big plans this holiday wekend?

She says:
Oh yeah
gardening
cleaning my floors
big stuff
Actually I might spend a night in a cabin on the Waccamaw
and do some kayaking
so that'll be good
Oh, you know, and being pious, of course
You?

He says:
LOL>...of course!!!
well...I cleaned floors last weekend so thais done...YEAH!!!
a little golf Frdiay and Saturday mongings...

She says:
Oh nice

He says:
and I do have to clean out the garage one day...BOOOOO

She says:
I hate chores

He says:
me too...

She says:
Why did I think they'd go away when I grew up?
I think I need to have kids. Make them start doing some dishes.

He says:
they just get more and more and more

She says:
srrsly

He says:
we need FUN in our life...hhhmmmmm

This is where I start to feel squeamish. I mean, OK. I like fun. But that long "hhhmmmmmm" felt like a hot breath across a phone line, right? That's not fun. It certainly ain't sexy. So I tried to keep it light and jokey. I figure, can't we all agree that work sucks, eh? Eh?

She says:
Oh, what, like work isn't FUN for you?
It doesn't bring you enough JOYJOYJOY?

He says:
there you go again..scarcasim...I LOVE IT!

She says:
I just can't help it
I'm glad someone around here appreciates it

He says:
I do...let it FLY!!!

She says:
ha
I still have to figure out different types of humor.
Not everyone thinks I'm hilarious, apparently.

He says:
i find you hilarous and interesting...

I don't want bald, married guys my dad's age to find me interesting. Especially if they can't spell for shit. Again, I retort with a joke.

She says:
Me, too!
That's why we get along

There's a pause, so I think it's over. Oh, no.

He says:
so.,...
tell me something unique

Um, what? Is this how old people flirt? Is he that bored? I hardly know this guy. He works in a different building. (I think his WIFE works in my building though.) Are we all of a sudden on Match.com? I play it safe by playing stupid.

She says:
??

He says:
lol
see...you haven't figured me out yet...I am haviong a tought ime with an outage over here and thoiught I would settle my stress by being silly wiht you
sorry

She says:
ahhhhh
I'm slow sometimes

He says:
not a problem...

OK, DIW. What is this? Am I being paranoid? Is he just so well-meaning and innocent and I'm the one projecting? Should I avoid this guy?

The Text Message Diaries

A good looking friend of mine recently joined Match.com. We'll call him "Guy." Guy already has plenty of dates, and his online dating hasn't stopped him from asking out the chick at the bar, all of my friends, pretty much any cute girl.

The other day we were chatting about Girl #735 and how it had ended poorly, yet again, over text. I asked to see the conversation and almost pissed my pants. Good stuff. The best part is he's too lazy to delete his texts. We're talking months of texts with dozens of women.

So I asked, would you be willing to let us publish the conversations, au total, on DatingIsWeird?

He's game. Sorta. I had to buy him beers and dinner so I could transcribe what follows is.

Guy:

I just felt Like we had a cheesy good bye and all.

And now I'm second guessing

my communication like u :)

Girl #1:

Well don't!

Guy:

Clicked "politely ignore" on ur wink.

And your messages and profile disappeared.

Girl #1:

Really? I saw a message that said

something along the lines of "thanks but no thanks",

funny!

I didn't feel like u invited yourself last night.

I ended up just hanging out at my

friends house. I closed my profile on match for a bit,

probably why its gone.

Guy:

Jeeze... I hope its not b/c of me. Didn't mean to try &

make it a date & I should have kept my

developing crush to myself. Hope u stay in touch.

I would like to hang out again

but I won't pester u. I promise!

Girl #1:

Ha ha. Second guesser. The crush talk was sweet!

I closed my profile for a bit because

I just felt like taking a break, has nothing

to do with you. I like you, stoke we are friends!

Going through some bullshit right now,

stressful day. If I don't respond or pick up

its not because of you.

Guy:

guilty as charged!

(A few days later....)

Girl #1:

Thanks? Ok. Match is weird because

it causes pressure when u go out. Like

you have to decide right then if u like

the person. Pressure!

Guy:

Thats all you. I mean we do get to choose

from dozens of possible dates so I imagine

lots of people end up liking something

about one another, thats fun

I don't feel it like pressure

Girl #1:

Yep, it is all me I guess. That's why I realized

that I'm not ready for dating. I've never really

done that before. Just met friends and

it turned into something. Dating isn't fun for me,

plus I have too much baggage. Well, good luck ;)

Guy:

Yea I know you were just looking for friends...

Sorry I wasn't fun for you. I think u r hot and cool

but I didn't mean to bring the pressure.

Hope we can hang out again sometime, friends.

Girl #1:

Crap!!! No! You were fun, ugh,

can I make this more of a mess?

I'm such a social retard. I like u.

YES friends and let's hang out again.

(Again, a few days later...)

Girl #1:

We should go grab a beer??

Guy:

Dang..I think I may have plans as of 1/2 hour ago.

Text u tomorrow and let's figure it out.

Girl #1:

Sounds good...I'm more fun :)

Guy:

I wouldnt know. Jus kidding.

Girl #1:

You son of a bitch!! J/k...

I might go out tonight.

Okay I'm not. Talk to u tomorrow :)

(The next day)

Guy:

Okay what about planning on a beer later :)

say 6 or 7. And just see what unfolds

Girl #1:

What about your other plans??

Guy:

Well im keeping it vague

and since u r just a friend,

I'm not going to feel bad

if we cut it short because someone else

wants to meet me afterward.

Hah, like u did the other day. Fair enough?

Girl #1:

Ha ha! Ok. You would not have had fun

if u came with me. It was lame. Me, my friend, and

her Weirdo husband at their house...

Guy:

That's perfect, u wouldn't have fun

w/ me later either b/c

my other plan might actually like me. Hehe

Girl #1:

Oh please! Of course they will,

but will they be as fun as me? NO

Guy:

We'll see, call me later?

Girl #1:

Stop being so mad at me.

Yes, let's plan for around 7?

(A few logistical texts later. I'm going to include times from here on out because they also say something...)

Girl #1:
5:28

You better not stand me up

because you're so mad at me ;)

It will hurt my heart. See u at 7

6:05

Ok, you're going right?

6:29

Tonight seems weird and you have plans after, so

let's plan for another time :)

Have fun tonight on your date!

Guy:

7:02

Are you effing kidding me? I just got the message that you want to bail?

I'm pissed I rushed home to take a shower so I could meet up with you

after you practically begged me.

I actually canceled my plans with a very sweet girl...

And now I've got nothing to do....

Damn it I'm so pissed. I was on a motorcycle ride with a friend

so I didn't get the texts until I got home and got out of the shower.

We rushed back from ___________ so I could meet you on time.

(Guy calls Girl #1 twice)

Girl #1:
7:02

I'm not answering cause I don't want to get yelled at.

I'm sorry I came across as begging you.

You made it sound like you had plans right after,

u didn't tell me u canceled. If u could relax a little

we could figure out what to do, Jesus!

Guy:

7:15

Whatever! You're acting totally crazy.

Kosher to wear lingerie from an ex?

A friend recently asked my opinion on wearing lingerie given by an ex with a new lover. I was totally at a loss for the etiquette on that one, so I put it to you, DIW readers.

Is it ok to wear lingerie given by an ex with a new lover? On a more general level, what do you do with old gifts from previous loves when in a new relationship?

Dear Serial: I'm all out of love

Dear Serial,

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.

Any advice?

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

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.

Love, Serial

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

Mormon Soaking

I really really wish what I was about to say was made up. Really, I do because I like Mormons. I was unsure what it would be like to live in the Mormon mecca, aka Salt Lake City, but since moving here I'm very pleasantly surprised and happy to report that it's not as weird as you may think.

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.

Cops

Why did I think it would be a good idea to date a cop?

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.

We exchanged a friendly hello (I almost always let fellas down easy) and I continued walking with my new beau.

"Um, how do you know that cop?" Beau asked.

I had to 'fess up. Fortunately, Beau was understanding. Everyone has a few skeletons in the closet. Some of them just happen to be cops.

Chexy

We have a guest post from "Fillmore" today. Happy Dating!

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.
“A little…”
Thwack. Again. Right in the Adams apple.
“Okay, that really…”
Thwack.
“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.

Out of the woodwork

How is it that ex-lovers and former flames know when you're no longer available?

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?"

I laughed.

"Seriously? You had your chance. Too late."

"I know, I really fucked that up. I'm sorry."

"What?"

"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."

Co-sleeping

I remember clearly the first time a man farted on me -- and I'm not talking about my brother.

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?

Vagina Power

** We don't recommend watching this at work. Or in front of children.

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.

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

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

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: