Dear Men,
So... the moment was right and we're getting it on. Somewhere in between the thought and the completion of the act ALWAYS comes the mandatory male statement: "I AM GOING TO CUM" ...and I am confused every single time it is said. By every single guy that I have ever been with.
Of course you are. This is obvious. It is, in fact, the reason that most of you get into this situation in the first place. Are we supposed to say something in return? It really interrupts the mood and totally turns me off, actually. Where on earth did this ritual begin and how did it spread to ALL of the men I've ever been with?
Get this right: I am very supportive of you completing the act, and I highly recommend it. It's just a question of WHY every single one of you uses the exact same phrase.
Please Explain,
Slightly Disheveled
Monday, August 1, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Spunky
When I started my job, I did so without promise of a real salary because I knew that I'd learn a lot. I'd learn about my field, business practices, learning to deal in the world of professionals, all the usual stuff - the stuff that they can't teach you in school.
But here's what I've learned a lot about lately: show dogs.
That's right. My boss shows dogs. They're the canine equivalent of beauty queens. She's at a show at least once a month. Most dogs you train to sit and lie down and behave, but not these monsters. You don't want them to sit down in the ring, so you basically just let them run rampant, apparently. And these are giant dogs, not little puff balls. Dogs that are as tall as me when they stand up. Fucking monsters.
So, here's my point and why I'm talking about dogs on DIW. My boss's main goal this week is getting her bitch knocked up. Therefore, tomorrow I have to cover an engagement for her because the frozen doggie jizz is stuck somewhere, on a truck, in the middle of the country. Apparently it's only viable for so long, and the bitch just went through heat, during which time every dog in the county tried to bone her.... Whatever.
Moral of the story - the bitch gets more play than I do. Literally.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Dear Joe Rogan...
One - I follow Joe Rogan on Twitter (@joerogan). I don't think this is a bad thing at all, but some people may judge. I don't know. I'm proud.
Two - I missed it when Joe Rogan linked to us here at DIW. This is a fact I am NOT proud of. We missed him linking to our Mormon Soaking article.
I've learned many great things about Joe through his Twitter account.
For example:
1 - He is hilarious.
2 - He likes to get high.
3 - His UStreams are incredible.
4 - His tattoos are gorgeous. I mean.... beautiful. Incredible.
4 - He is passionate about UFC. This is perhaps the most important thing I've learned about Joe. Listening to him comment on fights is golden. He's made me enjoy cagefighting. I know, right?
So, Joe - Here's to you. Our first - and for now only - celebrity appreciator.
We hope you and your friends and followers keep coming to visit us as we try hard to keep the good stuff coming. We know you're married and a dad and stuff, but because it's our mantra...
HAPPY DATING!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Ponzi Dating
***GUEST POST***
Please enjoy this oh so funny post from Gayle about one guy who couldn't take a hint to save his life!
About 15 years ago I made my maiden voyage to Martha's Vineyard. There weren't many people on the ferry from Wood’s Hole, just a handful of us, so the handsome, pock-marked man with a calm look caught my attention. I don't remember how we ended up talking (my ex-husband would say that I probably pushed my breasts out and tossed my hair, something he always says I do when I flirt)but I found out that he was the roadie/manager for a band that was playing at a bar in Oak Bluffs very close to where the ferry docks. Somehow I wormed my way into his lunch with the band members at the bar who asked me to come see them play that night. I didn't think that there would be any way in hell that my two gay, West Coast friends who I was visiting would come with me to continue my flirtation with a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band. But, well, they did and it actually became their MISSION to get me laid.
We had a great time at the bar and the band was surprisingly excellent. When they had played their last set and Clive started breaking down, my friends URGED me to suggest that he come back to my hotel room. The bar lights were flashing last call, and my friend was insisting that I slip him my room number. Somehow, it ended up on a napkin along with my lipsticked mouth imprint and my friend ran to the stage to give it to him. I was mortified. I was thrilled.
Like a ship captain's wife holding vigil, but without the widow's walk and flowy white nightgown I stared out my window almost all night, waiting for Clive to walk up the path to the hotel and come rap at my door. The bed was right under the window and I remember just finally sinking, rather sadly, into sleep. When I left the next morning to go meet my friends, I noticed that they had left a little note taped to a post that said "Gayle's Room" with an arrow pointing in my direction.
Back in Boston, with e-mail in its infancy, I found yet another way to contact Clive and I received an e-mail back, with some semi-apology about not coming back to the hotel, how he had taken a late-night walk and watched the sunrise. At the end of the e-mail, though, he said that there was something he really wanted to talk to me about in person and wondered if I would meet him in Providence when the band was playing, sometime during that next week. Something he needed to talk to me about in PERSON? Was he going to profess his love for me and needed me in front of him to kiss passionately and carry me away into the Providence sunset? In my mind, that was the only option and I told him that, yes of course, I'd be there.
I drove the hour-plus thinking of nothing else but how exciting a first kiss would be.
I walked into the rather large place and saw Clive, in shorts, Timberlands and a tee-shirt. We hugged each other and sat down at a high-top table, ordered drinks, some pub-ish food and made quick small talk. Within maybe 8 minutes, Clive pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and took out a pen.
"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He started drawing boxes and arrows and began to describe something that I couldn't even follow. Why was this man DRAWING DIAGRAMS ON A NAPKIN WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE KISSING ME????? It didn't take long before the boxes became a pyramid and I realized what was happening. I became an arrow on the bottom of a pyramid. He thought that I would bring him money and a bump up to the next level. To this day, I'm still confused how "boxes" could make someone rich.
I let him finish his spiel and he went back to setting-up for the band. I was stunned. I was temporarily immobilized. I had an hour and a half drive home and it was already way past my bedtime. All I could think about was how it wouldn't matter anymore if I smoked a million cigarettes because my breath wasn't an issue. I'm pretty certain that I had it in me to laugh, shake my head and not blame it on myself for being deficient in any way.
There have been some other doozies of dates and situations since then, but, I'm sure that this will stand out as one for the "Dates From Hell" record books.
If you liked this, do be a dear and visit her blog at http://mylifeinthemiddleages.blogspot.com/
HAPPY DATING!
Please enjoy this oh so funny post from Gayle about one guy who couldn't take a hint to save his life!
About 15 years ago I made my maiden voyage to Martha's Vineyard. There weren't many people on the ferry from Wood’s Hole, just a handful of us, so the handsome, pock-marked man with a calm look caught my attention. I don't remember how we ended up talking (my ex-husband would say that I probably pushed my breasts out and tossed my hair, something he always says I do when I flirt)but I found out that he was the roadie/manager for a band that was playing at a bar in Oak Bluffs very close to where the ferry docks. Somehow I wormed my way into his lunch with the band members at the bar who asked me to come see them play that night. I didn't think that there would be any way in hell that my two gay, West Coast friends who I was visiting would come with me to continue my flirtation with a roadie for some hippie-ish bar band. But, well, they did and it actually became their MISSION to get me laid.
We had a great time at the bar and the band was surprisingly excellent. When they had played their last set and Clive started breaking down, my friends URGED me to suggest that he come back to my hotel room. The bar lights were flashing last call, and my friend was insisting that I slip him my room number. Somehow, it ended up on a napkin along with my lipsticked mouth imprint and my friend ran to the stage to give it to him. I was mortified. I was thrilled.
Like a ship captain's wife holding vigil, but without the widow's walk and flowy white nightgown I stared out my window almost all night, waiting for Clive to walk up the path to the hotel and come rap at my door. The bed was right under the window and I remember just finally sinking, rather sadly, into sleep. When I left the next morning to go meet my friends, I noticed that they had left a little note taped to a post that said "Gayle's Room" with an arrow pointing in my direction.
Back in Boston, with e-mail in its infancy, I found yet another way to contact Clive and I received an e-mail back, with some semi-apology about not coming back to the hotel, how he had taken a late-night walk and watched the sunrise. At the end of the e-mail, though, he said that there was something he really wanted to talk to me about in person and wondered if I would meet him in Providence when the band was playing, sometime during that next week. Something he needed to talk to me about in PERSON? Was he going to profess his love for me and needed me in front of him to kiss passionately and carry me away into the Providence sunset? In my mind, that was the only option and I told him that, yes of course, I'd be there.
I drove the hour-plus thinking of nothing else but how exciting a first kiss would be.
I walked into the rather large place and saw Clive, in shorts, Timberlands and a tee-shirt. We hugged each other and sat down at a high-top table, ordered drinks, some pub-ish food and made quick small talk. Within maybe 8 minutes, Clive pulled a napkin out of the dispenser and took out a pen.
"This is what I wanted to talk to you about." He started drawing boxes and arrows and began to describe something that I couldn't even follow. Why was this man DRAWING DIAGRAMS ON A NAPKIN WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE KISSING ME????? It didn't take long before the boxes became a pyramid and I realized what was happening. I became an arrow on the bottom of a pyramid. He thought that I would bring him money and a bump up to the next level. To this day, I'm still confused how "boxes" could make someone rich.
I let him finish his spiel and he went back to setting-up for the band. I was stunned. I was temporarily immobilized. I had an hour and a half drive home and it was already way past my bedtime. All I could think about was how it wouldn't matter anymore if I smoked a million cigarettes because my breath wasn't an issue. I'm pretty certain that I had it in me to laugh, shake my head and not blame it on myself for being deficient in any way.
There have been some other doozies of dates and situations since then, but, I'm sure that this will stand out as one for the "Dates From Hell" record books.
If you liked this, do be a dear and visit her blog at http://mylifeinthemiddleages.blogspot.com/
HAPPY DATING!
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