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.
Kamis, 31 Desember 2009
Selasa, 22 Desember 2009
In the news
Last week, I picked up a copy of our local alt weekly, and inside, there was a story about a local band, and, whaddya know, I went on an awkward blind date with one of the fellers. Awkward's actually not the right word, not totally. It was a fun time. We met for beers and split some chicken wings, and had a nice conversation. He made me laugh. The only awkward part was when I had to tell him that although I'd had a nice time, I wasn't planning to see him again. The thing was, he had led me to believe he was at least 60 pounds lighter than he was. I like big boys, but not that big.
Flipping farther back in the issue, I saw another story about a local hip-hop dance program in town, and, whaddya know, the photo was of a fellow I'd gone out with twice, then decided not to see again. Except when, bored one drunken evening, I saw his green chat bubble pop up and flirted my way into a bootie call.
I really need to move to a bigger town.
Flipping farther back in the issue, I saw another story about a local hip-hop dance program in town, and, whaddya know, the photo was of a fellow I'd gone out with twice, then decided not to see again. Except when, bored one drunken evening, I saw his green chat bubble pop up and flirted my way into a bootie call.
I really need to move to a bigger town.
Rabu, 16 Desember 2009
Kamis, 10 Desember 2009
On retiring poster boy
Hey, y’all, heads up: This is a long post. You’re not required to read it. (Yes, I’m talking to you Anonymous Cereal Hater. You’re not going to like this post. You are welcome to save yourself some time by not reading it. I can just comment for you: "Cereal sucks and she can’t write blah blah blah, Signed, ACH.")
I recently wrote here about the family of my ex, Poster Boy. All it amounts to is a little ditty about how I love and miss them, and they miss me, too. In comments, I was accused of having a heart. (And yes, maybe, Internet, I’ll admit that I do, in fact, have a heart — just don’t tell anyone, OK?)
I sent a link to a member of Poster Boy’s family, a woman who has become a friend. I think her reply was, “Awwwwwww.”
Days later, late on a Friday night, I noticed I’d missed a call from Poster Boy. I called him back pronto, since, although we’d remained friendly enough that I’d actually had him and his girlfriend to my house for a big, fan-fucking-tastic end-of-the-summer bash about a month prior, (after I extended the invite, he called me to thank me, then Miss Poster Boy emailed me, thanked me for the invite, and asked what she could bring. I thought we were all being Oh-So Mature until he got a little too drunk at the party, and, in a mock-friendly gesture, slapped me on the back hard enough to leave a welt) he didn’t usually call me at midnight. I was worried.
“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about what you wrote about me and my family on the internet,” he said. I could tell he was drunk. I refused, on account of the drunkenness and told him we’d talk later.
But when I got home, I listened to the message. It was a condescending reprimand about how I needed to move on and stop writing about him on the Internet, (I guess writing my mother, or writing in my journal, or writing a zine would have been cool, but not the Internet) about how I’m a grown adult and I need to start acting like one. I think there was something in there about how the internet isn’t everything. (We know better than that, though, don’t we?) I texted him a message reading, basically: “Eat shit and die.”
He called me. Stupidly, I answered, and he ranted and talked down to me. When I reminded him that he was not allowed to talk like that to me, he actually responded, “I can talk to you any fucking way I want.” Naturally, I hung up on him.
But I was confused. He’d never before minded when I wrote about him on DIW. I think he liked the notoriety. He even commented on some posts — even after we broke up. He e-mailed me about one once and told me it had touched him. And there are choice Poster Boy stories — horrifying, jaw-dropping stories — that I’ve never written about on this site. Believe it or not, I do have boundaries.
I noticed the next day that a comment had been left on the post at about the same time we talked, an anonymous comment reading “get a fucking life and move on.”
I was done. I sent an email and told him that if he didn’t want me to write about him, he could’ve just ASKED. I wouldn’t even need a “please.” But I’d taken my last drunken phone call—something I should have done years earlier. I told him to lose my number.
Then a twist came. Poster Boy replied to my e-mail. He apologized. Twice. He told me he knew he shouldn’t have spoken to me like that and shouldn’t have called drunk. Then he closed by saying that he hadn’t commented on the post, hadn’t even read it, and: “Just so you know it makes things awkward for me that my family and you still are in contact with each other.”
Clarity. It was young Miss Poster Boy who’d read the post, gotten pissed, left the shitty comment. In all likelihood, it was she he was showing off for when he called and insulted me. Of course.
And it’s no wonder. Not everyone understands this about blogging and dating: When you’re in a relationship, a really good one, sometimes the new relationship doesn’t make it on your dating blog. I guess some people don’t like being written about on shit-talky dating blogs. That’s actually OK with me because the funny thing that happened yesterday with the sensitive, sexy man I’m now running around with? It feels precious and private.
However, the love I feel for people who were a second family to me for half of a decade? That feels like something other people might identify with. Lots of emotionally mature folks get that sort of thing.
And Miss Poster Boy? Poor thing. I sort of feel bad that she’s so insecure. That she doesn’t get, and clearly doesn’t have, that type of connection, forged over time. I really wish her luck with Poster Boy. And I know she’s going to need it.
But, here’s the thing: She won. Poster Boy and I are done. We don’t talk. I think that’s what she really wanted. Thanks to her hissy fit, I’ve decided it’s time to retire Poster Boy.
I recently wrote here about the family of my ex, Poster Boy. All it amounts to is a little ditty about how I love and miss them, and they miss me, too. In comments, I was accused of having a heart. (And yes, maybe, Internet, I’ll admit that I do, in fact, have a heart — just don’t tell anyone, OK?)
I sent a link to a member of Poster Boy’s family, a woman who has become a friend. I think her reply was, “Awwwwwww.”
Days later, late on a Friday night, I noticed I’d missed a call from Poster Boy. I called him back pronto, since, although we’d remained friendly enough that I’d actually had him and his girlfriend to my house for a big, fan-fucking-tastic end-of-the-summer bash about a month prior, (after I extended the invite, he called me to thank me, then Miss Poster Boy emailed me, thanked me for the invite, and asked what she could bring. I thought we were all being Oh-So Mature until he got a little too drunk at the party, and, in a mock-friendly gesture, slapped me on the back hard enough to leave a welt) he didn’t usually call me at midnight. I was worried.
“Well, I actually wanted to talk to you about what you wrote about me and my family on the internet,” he said. I could tell he was drunk. I refused, on account of the drunkenness and told him we’d talk later.
But when I got home, I listened to the message. It was a condescending reprimand about how I needed to move on and stop writing about him on the Internet, (I guess writing my mother, or writing in my journal, or writing a zine would have been cool, but not the Internet) about how I’m a grown adult and I need to start acting like one. I think there was something in there about how the internet isn’t everything. (We know better than that, though, don’t we?) I texted him a message reading, basically: “Eat shit and die.”
He called me. Stupidly, I answered, and he ranted and talked down to me. When I reminded him that he was not allowed to talk like that to me, he actually responded, “I can talk to you any fucking way I want.” Naturally, I hung up on him.
But I was confused. He’d never before minded when I wrote about him on DIW. I think he liked the notoriety. He even commented on some posts — even after we broke up. He e-mailed me about one once and told me it had touched him. And there are choice Poster Boy stories — horrifying, jaw-dropping stories — that I’ve never written about on this site. Believe it or not, I do have boundaries.
I noticed the next day that a comment had been left on the post at about the same time we talked, an anonymous comment reading “get a fucking life and move on.”
I was done. I sent an email and told him that if he didn’t want me to write about him, he could’ve just ASKED. I wouldn’t even need a “please.” But I’d taken my last drunken phone call—something I should have done years earlier. I told him to lose my number.
Then a twist came. Poster Boy replied to my e-mail. He apologized. Twice. He told me he knew he shouldn’t have spoken to me like that and shouldn’t have called drunk. Then he closed by saying that he hadn’t commented on the post, hadn’t even read it, and: “Just so you know it makes things awkward for me that my family and you still are in contact with each other.”
Clarity. It was young Miss Poster Boy who’d read the post, gotten pissed, left the shitty comment. In all likelihood, it was she he was showing off for when he called and insulted me. Of course.
And it’s no wonder. Not everyone understands this about blogging and dating: When you’re in a relationship, a really good one, sometimes the new relationship doesn’t make it on your dating blog. I guess some people don’t like being written about on shit-talky dating blogs. That’s actually OK with me because the funny thing that happened yesterday with the sensitive, sexy man I’m now running around with? It feels precious and private.
However, the love I feel for people who were a second family to me for half of a decade? That feels like something other people might identify with. Lots of emotionally mature folks get that sort of thing.
And Miss Poster Boy? Poor thing. I sort of feel bad that she’s so insecure. That she doesn’t get, and clearly doesn’t have, that type of connection, forged over time. I really wish her luck with Poster Boy. And I know she’s going to need it.
But, here’s the thing: She won. Poster Boy and I are done. We don’t talk. I think that’s what she really wanted. Thanks to her hissy fit, I’ve decided it’s time to retire Poster Boy.
Rabu, 09 Desember 2009
The Band
Or: How to ruin your ex’s birthdays for the rest of his natural life in ten steps
Step one: Find out that one of his favorite bands is playing on his birthday, in town, in a tiny venue.
Step two: Go to the show with him… not like WITH him, but with his friend group.
Step three: Dress really well. Drink. Dance. Take some pictures. Get up really close to the stage.
Step four: Find out where the band is drinking after the show, and then drag him and his friends there.
Step five: Get autographs and strike up a conversation with the band.
Step six: Have the guitarist buy him a birthday drink. Accept several free drinks from said guitarist, since he asked, thank you very much.
Step seven: It would be a huge plus if the guitarist has a foreign accent.
Step eight: Find out that the guitarist was just standing in for their usual guitarist, but that he usually tours with a much more well-known band that you are also a fan of.
Step nine: Get yourself invited back to the hotel to party. Make sure the ex and his friends have got an invite too. Party like a goddamn rockstar, but keep your clothes on.
Step ten: Apologize. He will never be able to top that as a birthday party. Ever.
-Slightly Disheveled
Step one: Find out that one of his favorite bands is playing on his birthday, in town, in a tiny venue.
Step two: Go to the show with him… not like WITH him, but with his friend group.
Step three: Dress really well. Drink. Dance. Take some pictures. Get up really close to the stage.
Step four: Find out where the band is drinking after the show, and then drag him and his friends there.
Step five: Get autographs and strike up a conversation with the band.
Step six: Have the guitarist buy him a birthday drink. Accept several free drinks from said guitarist, since he asked, thank you very much.
Step seven: It would be a huge plus if the guitarist has a foreign accent.
Step eight: Find out that the guitarist was just standing in for their usual guitarist, but that he usually tours with a much more well-known band that you are also a fan of.
Step nine: Get yourself invited back to the hotel to party. Make sure the ex and his friends have got an invite too. Party like a goddamn rockstar, but keep your clothes on.
Step ten: Apologize. He will never be able to top that as a birthday party. Ever.
-Slightly Disheveled
Rabu, 02 Desember 2009
How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status
Part One: Make a Breakfast Burrito
Many friends, acquaintances and talk shows have told me over the years that it is impossible to stay fuck buddies with someone. Reasons are that either emotions get in the way because one person wants a relationship and the other doesn't or that it ruins friendships, as sex often does. However, I'm happy to report that I've managed to pull it off in multiple instances, so I'd like to share my knowledge with those of you who are committed to establishing and maintaining a fuck buddy relationship. So, I present to you a series on how to maintain fuck buddy status.
First, we must weed out candidates who do not belong here. It is true that most fuck buddy situations get screwed up when one party develops romantic feelings (rather than purely lustful feelings) for the other party. If you are the type of person who can't engage in sex without developing these sort of emotions, turn back now. Accept yourself for who you are, and wait patiently for a relationship. Also, if you do not drink, this course is not for you.
It is true that sex ruins friendships. So don't be fuck buddies with your friends. If you want to maintain fuck buddy status, you cannot be friends with your fuck buddy. The only reason you should hang out with your fuck buddy is to fuck. Are we clear? Yes, you can go out drinking and engage in other activities with your fuck buddy, but all of these activities should be seen only as a precursor to fucking.
So, now that we've eliminated the emotional types and we've established the First Habit of Highly Effective Fuck Buddies (don't be friends), we can move on to establishing the fuck buddy relationship. This is important because without the proper steps, a fuck buddy arrangement can easily become one of the above scenarios. If a friendship or romantic feelings develop, you and your fuck buddy are fucked.
Both times I've established and maintained fuck buddy status, it began with getting drunk. After you're sufficiently sloshed, find your target. Your target should be someone you kind of know but who is not part of your circle of friends. Maybe it's a bartender who at least recognizes you from previous visits. Maybe it's a friend of a friend of a friend (notice three degrees of separation, not two) or someone who you have "seen around campus." College is, of course, the ideal time for fuck buddies. In a nutshell, your target should not be a total stranger, and at the very least you should know that this person actually lives in your city. So let's hope you are intoxicated enough to continue to the next step, because you've got to be pretty bold for this part. You must make it clear to your target that you are interested in having sex, right away, that night.
What happens after your target accepts your edict is really only your business, but the next morning is crucial. If you're at the target's house and you sneak out without saying goodbye, this encounter is destined to remain a one-night stand. Same goes for if you are the host and you kick your potential fuck buddy out as soon as you wake up. The appropriate thing to do if you are hosting is to make your potential fuck buddy breakfast. Make something casual and simple, like a breakfast burrito. Don't make a big deal out of it; this might be read as a sign that you are trying to establish a relationship. No, if you want to get yourself a fuck buddy, you must prepare a breakfast that says "I care about you just enough that I don't want you to be hungry." If you are not hosting, eat it. Say thank you. When you are done, go home. You don't need to say why you are leaving; just leave.
This concludes Part One of How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status. Tune in sometime later to read more, including appropriate activities for fuck buddies, birthday etiquette, text messaging and appropriate discussion topics.
Some Sexpert
Many friends, acquaintances and talk shows have told me over the years that it is impossible to stay fuck buddies with someone. Reasons are that either emotions get in the way because one person wants a relationship and the other doesn't or that it ruins friendships, as sex often does. However, I'm happy to report that I've managed to pull it off in multiple instances, so I'd like to share my knowledge with those of you who are committed to establishing and maintaining a fuck buddy relationship. So, I present to you a series on how to maintain fuck buddy status.
First, we must weed out candidates who do not belong here. It is true that most fuck buddy situations get screwed up when one party develops romantic feelings (rather than purely lustful feelings) for the other party. If you are the type of person who can't engage in sex without developing these sort of emotions, turn back now. Accept yourself for who you are, and wait patiently for a relationship. Also, if you do not drink, this course is not for you.
It is true that sex ruins friendships. So don't be fuck buddies with your friends. If you want to maintain fuck buddy status, you cannot be friends with your fuck buddy. The only reason you should hang out with your fuck buddy is to fuck. Are we clear? Yes, you can go out drinking and engage in other activities with your fuck buddy, but all of these activities should be seen only as a precursor to fucking.
So, now that we've eliminated the emotional types and we've established the First Habit of Highly Effective Fuck Buddies (don't be friends), we can move on to establishing the fuck buddy relationship. This is important because without the proper steps, a fuck buddy arrangement can easily become one of the above scenarios. If a friendship or romantic feelings develop, you and your fuck buddy are fucked.
Both times I've established and maintained fuck buddy status, it began with getting drunk. After you're sufficiently sloshed, find your target. Your target should be someone you kind of know but who is not part of your circle of friends. Maybe it's a bartender who at least recognizes you from previous visits. Maybe it's a friend of a friend of a friend (notice three degrees of separation, not two) or someone who you have "seen around campus." College is, of course, the ideal time for fuck buddies. In a nutshell, your target should not be a total stranger, and at the very least you should know that this person actually lives in your city. So let's hope you are intoxicated enough to continue to the next step, because you've got to be pretty bold for this part. You must make it clear to your target that you are interested in having sex, right away, that night.
What happens after your target accepts your edict is really only your business, but the next morning is crucial. If you're at the target's house and you sneak out without saying goodbye, this encounter is destined to remain a one-night stand. Same goes for if you are the host and you kick your potential fuck buddy out as soon as you wake up. The appropriate thing to do if you are hosting is to make your potential fuck buddy breakfast. Make something casual and simple, like a breakfast burrito. Don't make a big deal out of it; this might be read as a sign that you are trying to establish a relationship. No, if you want to get yourself a fuck buddy, you must prepare a breakfast that says "I care about you just enough that I don't want you to be hungry." If you are not hosting, eat it. Say thank you. When you are done, go home. You don't need to say why you are leaving; just leave.
This concludes Part One of How to Maintain Fuck Buddy Status. Tune in sometime later to read more, including appropriate activities for fuck buddies, birthday etiquette, text messaging and appropriate discussion topics.
Some Sexpert
Senin, 30 November 2009
Throw Up in Your Mouth Alert
I'm not the Rom-Com type. I hate cheesy romantic stories where the chick gets swept off her feet by Matthew McConaughey (why is he in every one of those god-forsaken movies?) and I typically retch when told cutesey-wootsey tales of love. Valentine's Day is bullshit as are most things having to do with Disney's version of true love.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
Sabtu, 21 November 2009
On kissing photos
Dear Facebook,
First, let me make it clear that I think it is gross when ANYONE posts a profile picture that features people kissing. I don't really care if people post kissing photos in albums, and it doesn't bother me when people's profile pictures include a significant other. In fact, I think that is kind of sweet. But I draw the line at kissing pictures. And I know I am not alone. A friend of mine just a few minutes ago posted a status message about how gross it was to watch people kissing in public (on a plane). No, it's not better when it is a photo instead of live.
So, Facebook, because I don't want to see kissing photos of anyone -- not newlyweds, not close friends, not my grandparents, not strangers -- no matter how attractive they are, it should come as no surprise to you that I do not want to see it when my ex-boyfriend posts a profile picture of him kissing his current girlfriend. Let me make it clear that I honestly and truthfully never think about this ex. I don't think about any of my exes, and I don't harbor any kind of feelings for any of them, negative or positive. Note that no negative feelings means I do not unfriend my exes on Facebook because that would require feelings, specifically unfriendly ones. It is possible for me to have no feelings of any sort for my exes because I don't communicate with them. At all. This method has always worked amazingly well and has made my life low on drama and heartache. Best of all, it's very easy for me.
It was also easy for me to move on. It was easy for me to get into a good relationship with someone I truly love, live with and have been with for a long time. It was easy for me to not think of my ex. However, you have caused a quandary, Facebook. Yes, I did hide his updates from appearing in my news stream so that I could continue life with the luxury of not thinking about him. But, as I explained beofre, he is still there. That means when I search my friends, sometimes I see his photo.
This brings me to yesterday, and the suddently stronger-than-usual aversion to kissing photos. My eyes registered the kissing photo, and my brain said, "hmm, that's gross, but you don't care. Why would you care? You haven't thought about him for a long time, and you have no ill will toward him, so it shouldn't bother you that he has a girlfriend. Who he is kissing. In his Facebook profile picture. ... What are you doing? Why are you clicking on it? Now you're going to see his whole profile, you idiot! What?! You're clicking it again so you can see a bigger version of it? Why? Why would you ... huh, he still lives in that same crappy apartment. Close this page! Good job."
So, you see, Facebook, you are messing up my whole strategy. Of course, that was yesterday and this is today. Today, I don't care about the ex-boyfriend-kissing-new-girlfriend photo. (Did I ever?) Of course, I'm not looking at it right now either. Why am I not looking at it? Because photos of people kissing being put as their Facebook profile pictures is GROSS, and that is really all I was trying to say. Really.
Get a Room Or Stop Snogging
First, let me make it clear that I think it is gross when ANYONE posts a profile picture that features people kissing. I don't really care if people post kissing photos in albums, and it doesn't bother me when people's profile pictures include a significant other. In fact, I think that is kind of sweet. But I draw the line at kissing pictures. And I know I am not alone. A friend of mine just a few minutes ago posted a status message about how gross it was to watch people kissing in public (on a plane). No, it's not better when it is a photo instead of live.
So, Facebook, because I don't want to see kissing photos of anyone -- not newlyweds, not close friends, not my grandparents, not strangers -- no matter how attractive they are, it should come as no surprise to you that I do not want to see it when my ex-boyfriend posts a profile picture of him kissing his current girlfriend. Let me make it clear that I honestly and truthfully never think about this ex. I don't think about any of my exes, and I don't harbor any kind of feelings for any of them, negative or positive. Note that no negative feelings means I do not unfriend my exes on Facebook because that would require feelings, specifically unfriendly ones. It is possible for me to have no feelings of any sort for my exes because I don't communicate with them. At all. This method has always worked amazingly well and has made my life low on drama and heartache. Best of all, it's very easy for me.
It was also easy for me to move on. It was easy for me to get into a good relationship with someone I truly love, live with and have been with for a long time. It was easy for me to not think of my ex. However, you have caused a quandary, Facebook. Yes, I did hide his updates from appearing in my news stream so that I could continue life with the luxury of not thinking about him. But, as I explained beofre, he is still there. That means when I search my friends, sometimes I see his photo.
This brings me to yesterday, and the suddently stronger-than-usual aversion to kissing photos. My eyes registered the kissing photo, and my brain said, "hmm, that's gross, but you don't care. Why would you care? You haven't thought about him for a long time, and you have no ill will toward him, so it shouldn't bother you that he has a girlfriend. Who he is kissing. In his Facebook profile picture. ... What are you doing? Why are you clicking on it? Now you're going to see his whole profile, you idiot! What?! You're clicking it again so you can see a bigger version of it? Why? Why would you ... huh, he still lives in that same crappy apartment. Close this page! Good job."
So, you see, Facebook, you are messing up my whole strategy. Of course, that was yesterday and this is today. Today, I don't care about the ex-boyfriend-kissing-new-girlfriend photo. (Did I ever?) Of course, I'm not looking at it right now either. Why am I not looking at it? Because photos of people kissing being put as their Facebook profile pictures is GROSS, and that is really all I was trying to say. Really.
Get a Room Or Stop Snogging
Kamis, 19 November 2009
1%
A little while ago, a newishly-single, male friend was getting set up on a date with a woman he’d only met once; the setters were a married couple. Just before the date, the setter-husband got just drunk enough to tell my buddy this:
“You know how probably 20 percent of girls will let you put it in their asses, and then only 1 percent of THEM actually like it? I’m telling you, I don’t know why, but I think this girl’s a 1 percenter.”
Personally, I lack the equipment (and inclination) to have a sample set against which to compare this data, but I’m just sayin’ this: Really?
I mean, Really?
“You know how probably 20 percent of girls will let you put it in their asses, and then only 1 percent of THEM actually like it? I’m telling you, I don’t know why, but I think this girl’s a 1 percenter.”
Personally, I lack the equipment (and inclination) to have a sample set against which to compare this data, but I’m just sayin’ this: Really?
I mean, Really?
Selasa, 17 November 2009
Flowchart to Determine If Your Girlfriend Is Cheating On You
**Funny story over at holytaco.com
Girlfriends are a lot like volcanoes: they're fascinating and mysterious, and at any time they can explode and completely blow your head off. I might be confusing volcanoes with those collars from the movie Scanners. Anyway, here's a flowchart to help you determine if your girlfriend is cheating on you:
Senin, 09 November 2009
Sniffle
OK, so being sick sucks. But when you're in a new relationship, it's a wonderful litmus test. The first time you're stuck in bed, feeling miserable, achey, smelly and like maybe you'd like the rest of the world to go ahead and fuck off and die, and then Mr. Lovely shows up with 7-up and pudding cups, then sits on your bedside rubbing your back for a minute before loading up your bed with pillows, and setting up your laptop with his hard drive full of mindless movies? It's kind of kickass.
And if he gets sick a day later, and you get to return the favor, and make him soup and rub his back and clean up the nasty tissues and act like you couldn't care in the least? It's satisfying -- NOT, of course, that you don't feel awful that he's sick, especially since you know where he got the cooties in the first place.
Now, you've probably seen this, hell, I've probably posted it here before, but I like watching this come flu season:
And if he gets sick a day later, and you get to return the favor, and make him soup and rub his back and clean up the nasty tissues and act like you couldn't care in the least? It's satisfying -- NOT, of course, that you don't feel awful that he's sick, especially since you know where he got the cooties in the first place.
Now, you've probably seen this, hell, I've probably posted it here before, but I like watching this come flu season:
Selasa, 03 November 2009
Can't get enough of that Craigslist
*** Editor's note: Today's Craigslist Gem comes from Sir Robin, AKA The Fool. Happy dating! ***
Being male, I'm used to being cast as the villain, but there are some dating scenarios that would make even the most virtuous white knight act rather like Sir Robin. Appropriately enough, a confrontation with a three-headed ogre is a pretty fair metaphor when used to describe my date, although to hear her tell it, I was the one who behaved inappropriately. We had first connected online, through Craig's List, and the day after our dating disaster, I found the following post:
"/Last night was the worst first date of my life. Not only was it with the creepiest guy I had ever seen, but after pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's and making me drive an hour out of my way, he barely said a word to me... except to call me fat and tell me to stop eating so much. He tried to order booze after I told him I didn't drink, and he wouldn't take his shades off the entire time. We won't be going out again./"
There was no question that it was about me. The sunglasses bit confirmed it, although she left out the part where I apologized for my debilitating light-sensitivity. Still, as certain as I was about the subject of the story, I wasn't completely clear on the details.
1. "/... After pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's.../" Apparently, responding to passive-aggressive accusations about not being interested counts as pressuring. When I suggested that we wait until Saturday afternoon to meet - rather than a bit past ten on Friday evening - she questioned whether I really wanted to meet at all. I assured her that I did, and she asked if I knew of any restaurants that were open late. "Only Denny's," I joked. Her unexpected response was that Denny's was fine by her. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I supposed that it was better than a dingy dive bar somewhere.
2. "/... Making me drive an hour out of my way.../" We lived three hours apart. You do the math.
3. "/... except to call me fat.../" She weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she had led me to believe, but I didn't say anything about it. At least, not until she asked - and this was perhaps the second thing she said to me - "I'm heavier than you expected, aren't I?" My response, for the record, was a decidedly lame reply of "And prettier, too!" Really, though, is there a right answer to that question?
4. "/... and tell me to stop eating so much./" While we had been planning the date, she asked if I would mind paying. While we were eating, she kept ordering more additions to the meal. While looking into my wallet - figuratively speaking - I politely stated that I couldn't comfortably afford much more, being that I was a broke college student. While ignoring my statement, she ate my french fries.
5. "/He tried to order booze.../" No, I tried to order a Shirley Temple. It was the waiter who thought that I was trying to order booze. At least he realized his mistake after I explained it to him.
Perhaps my favorite accusation, though, is this one:
6. "/... he barely said a word to me./" This is true. Of course, it's a little bit hard to get a word in edgewise when she and her sister - who she brought along as a chaperon - are spending the entire time gossiping about friends whom I've never even heard of whilst dining on the meal that I paid for. It's even worse when they both glare at me every time I try to interject a comment or ask a question, and downright insulting when the they discuss me in whispers that they think I can't overhear from across the table.
In spite of all those incorrect details, though, there's definitely one thing that she got exactly right: "/We won't be going out again./"
Believe me, folks... As soon as it was polite enough to do so, Sir Robin ran away.
Being male, I'm used to being cast as the villain, but there are some dating scenarios that would make even the most virtuous white knight act rather like Sir Robin. Appropriately enough, a confrontation with a three-headed ogre is a pretty fair metaphor when used to describe my date, although to hear her tell it, I was the one who behaved inappropriately. We had first connected online, through Craig's List, and the day after our dating disaster, I found the following post:
"/Last night was the worst first date of my life. Not only was it with the creepiest guy I had ever seen, but after pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's and making me drive an hour out of my way, he barely said a word to me... except to call me fat and tell me to stop eating so much. He tried to order booze after I told him I didn't drink, and he wouldn't take his shades off the entire time. We won't be going out again./"
There was no question that it was about me. The sunglasses bit confirmed it, although she left out the part where I apologized for my debilitating light-sensitivity. Still, as certain as I was about the subject of the story, I wasn't completely clear on the details.
1. "/... After pressuring me into a late-night meeting at Denny's.../" Apparently, responding to passive-aggressive accusations about not being interested counts as pressuring. When I suggested that we wait until Saturday afternoon to meet - rather than a bit past ten on Friday evening - she questioned whether I really wanted to meet at all. I assured her that I did, and she asked if I knew of any restaurants that were open late. "Only Denny's," I joked. Her unexpected response was that Denny's was fine by her. It wasn't quite what I had in mind, but I supposed that it was better than a dingy dive bar somewhere.
2. "/... Making me drive an hour out of my way.../" We lived three hours apart. You do the math.
3. "/... except to call me fat.../" She weighed at least a hundred pounds more than she had led me to believe, but I didn't say anything about it. At least, not until she asked - and this was perhaps the second thing she said to me - "I'm heavier than you expected, aren't I?" My response, for the record, was a decidedly lame reply of "And prettier, too!" Really, though, is there a right answer to that question?
4. "/... and tell me to stop eating so much./" While we had been planning the date, she asked if I would mind paying. While we were eating, she kept ordering more additions to the meal. While looking into my wallet - figuratively speaking - I politely stated that I couldn't comfortably afford much more, being that I was a broke college student. While ignoring my statement, she ate my french fries.
5. "/He tried to order booze.../" No, I tried to order a Shirley Temple. It was the waiter who thought that I was trying to order booze. At least he realized his mistake after I explained it to him.
Perhaps my favorite accusation, though, is this one:
6. "/... he barely said a word to me./" This is true. Of course, it's a little bit hard to get a word in edgewise when she and her sister - who she brought along as a chaperon - are spending the entire time gossiping about friends whom I've never even heard of whilst dining on the meal that I paid for. It's even worse when they both glare at me every time I try to interject a comment or ask a question, and downright insulting when the they discuss me in whispers that they think I can't overhear from across the table.
In spite of all those incorrect details, though, there's definitely one thing that she got exactly right: "/We won't be going out again./"
Believe me, folks... As soon as it was polite enough to do so, Sir Robin ran away.
Kamis, 29 Oktober 2009
Adventures on CL
At the start of summer I placed an add on Craigslist in an attempt to find a few playmates for my two year old son and hopefully one for myself. Our first meetings were usually at a park with the kids just before nap time so I had an easy out if things turned bad.
The following is an example of when things turn out bad, well badish.
In my inbox was a long message from a woman, lets call her Lisa. Lisa is a single mother of four boys, all two years apart, all with different fathers. I am not one to judge being the middle child of three who all have different dads but she also has restraining orders on two of the four so... We seemed to have a list of things in common but they're the sort of things that most everyone has in common- funny movies, likes dogs, eating good food, drinking, etc etc. And a number of things not in common, the biggest being an addiction to drugs that she had beaten a couple of years back... not something I would include in my opening get to know you letter but... I wrote back and sent her a picture of myself asking for one in return. She sent me a number of photos and although I considered her sort of pretty she wasn't smiling in a single one. I thought it odd and asked for a smile and got a sort of grimace with tight lips. After a week or so we met at a local park with my son and two of her boys. I didn't dress up but looking at her Cowboys sweatshirt that was four or five sizes too large, the Yankees hat pulled down over her eyes and the faded and torn blue jeans Lisa wore didn't make me feel like I'd found someone really special. We sat on a bench and talked while the kids played but I spent the whole time talking to the back of her head. At first I thought maybe she's just really diligent about watching her boys but something felt wrong. At this point I could already tell that we weren't very compatible and was getting ready to institute the 'nap time' clause. Just then one of Lisa's boys ran up to us and as they talked I noticed that something was wrong with Lisa's mouth. I couldn't put my finger on it at first but over the next five minutes or so I came to realize that she was missing all her upper teeth. A bare palate. She must have seen me notice because she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away again. Now I felt like an ass... how to leave gracefully? I had already made the decision to go before I caught sight of her toothless mouth but now all signs would point to THAT being my reason for going. I kept up some small talk for a minute and then luckily, my son shit his pants so we were able to make a discreet exit.
I have a good friend who, upon hearing this story asked me what the problem was. 'I mean, come on dude,' he said. 'She doesn't have any teeth. THINK ABOUT IT MAN, JUST THINK ABOUT IT.'
The following is an example of when things turn out bad, well badish.
In my inbox was a long message from a woman, lets call her Lisa. Lisa is a single mother of four boys, all two years apart, all with different fathers. I am not one to judge being the middle child of three who all have different dads but she also has restraining orders on two of the four so... We seemed to have a list of things in common but they're the sort of things that most everyone has in common- funny movies, likes dogs, eating good food, drinking, etc etc. And a number of things not in common, the biggest being an addiction to drugs that she had beaten a couple of years back... not something I would include in my opening get to know you letter but... I wrote back and sent her a picture of myself asking for one in return. She sent me a number of photos and although I considered her sort of pretty she wasn't smiling in a single one. I thought it odd and asked for a smile and got a sort of grimace with tight lips. After a week or so we met at a local park with my son and two of her boys. I didn't dress up but looking at her Cowboys sweatshirt that was four or five sizes too large, the Yankees hat pulled down over her eyes and the faded and torn blue jeans Lisa wore didn't make me feel like I'd found someone really special. We sat on a bench and talked while the kids played but I spent the whole time talking to the back of her head. At first I thought maybe she's just really diligent about watching her boys but something felt wrong. At this point I could already tell that we weren't very compatible and was getting ready to institute the 'nap time' clause. Just then one of Lisa's boys ran up to us and as they talked I noticed that something was wrong with Lisa's mouth. I couldn't put my finger on it at first but over the next five minutes or so I came to realize that she was missing all her upper teeth. A bare palate. She must have seen me notice because she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away again. Now I felt like an ass... how to leave gracefully? I had already made the decision to go before I caught sight of her toothless mouth but now all signs would point to THAT being my reason for going. I kept up some small talk for a minute and then luckily, my son shit his pants so we were able to make a discreet exit.
I have a good friend who, upon hearing this story asked me what the problem was. 'I mean, come on dude,' he said. 'She doesn't have any teeth. THINK ABOUT IT MAN, JUST THINK ABOUT IT.'
Family
Poster Boy and I split a year and a half ago, and that's a good thing. It's been great for both of us.
The thing that still sucks though? I love his family.
The first time I met his grandmother, she walked into the room in her coordinated pantsuit, her smart black wig, giant glasses and dangling, colorful earrings and waved her cigarette at me while exclaiming in a voice that can only come from years of chain smoking, "What a pretty girl!"
How could I not fall in love?
I sent Poster Boy's family Christmas cards last year, the first Christmas in a half-decade that I wasn't with them. I've had drinks with some of them since going solo, gotten together once or twice. But I haven't heard from the grandparents (who adore their only grandson with a sweetly blind fervor) since the breakup.
So when I saw a missed call from their house on my phone last week, my heart started pounding. Shit, shit, shit. They're old, and not very healthy.
There was a voice mail. I called, my hands practically shaking, not at all willing to hear bad news about these people, who for the years I knew them were more kind to me than most of my own grandparents had ever been.
A message from poster boy's aunt:
"Hey, (Serial). I was just calling because my mom's cleaning some stuff out of the house, and she has this bear that wears costumes, and she wanted to send it to you. She said you had admired it once. So we need your address, if you send it now maybe we can get it to you in time for Halloween. Call us back here. We miss you sweetheart, hope you're doing good."
I called back, I'd missed grandma, so I left my address with grandpa. He told me how it had been a good relationship, and to keep in touch, and that they wanted me to know how much they had always liked me.
I can't wait to get that goddam bear.
The thing that still sucks though? I love his family.
The first time I met his grandmother, she walked into the room in her coordinated pantsuit, her smart black wig, giant glasses and dangling, colorful earrings and waved her cigarette at me while exclaiming in a voice that can only come from years of chain smoking, "What a pretty girl!"
How could I not fall in love?
I sent Poster Boy's family Christmas cards last year, the first Christmas in a half-decade that I wasn't with them. I've had drinks with some of them since going solo, gotten together once or twice. But I haven't heard from the grandparents (who adore their only grandson with a sweetly blind fervor) since the breakup.
So when I saw a missed call from their house on my phone last week, my heart started pounding. Shit, shit, shit. They're old, and not very healthy.
There was a voice mail. I called, my hands practically shaking, not at all willing to hear bad news about these people, who for the years I knew them were more kind to me than most of my own grandparents had ever been.
A message from poster boy's aunt:
"Hey, (Serial). I was just calling because my mom's cleaning some stuff out of the house, and she has this bear that wears costumes, and she wanted to send it to you. She said you had admired it once. So we need your address, if you send it now maybe we can get it to you in time for Halloween. Call us back here. We miss you sweetheart, hope you're doing good."
I called back, I'd missed grandma, so I left my address with grandpa. He told me how it had been a good relationship, and to keep in touch, and that they wanted me to know how much they had always liked me.
I can't wait to get that goddam bear.
Jumat, 23 Oktober 2009
Selasa, 20 Oktober 2009
Better Late Than Never
**Makes sense this would come in from an anon.
A few years ago an ex of mine (who dumped me), died. We'd lost touch, but I heard about it through old friends. What sucks is that she was quite young. What is weird is that after hearing of her death, I had a few dreams about her. In the dreams she was yelling at me (in our two year relationship she never yelled, ever) and telling me how horrible I was at relationships. So I started thinking about her and our relationship and recognized that she was right, that I really was bad at being in a relationship. I communicated rarely and when I did I was aloof and distracted. I am ashamed to say that I think I went for months without looking her in the eye. I judged her for her inability to find a job, I criticized her for her shyness at parties, and one time, oh god, I even called her fat.
No wonder she dumped me, though at the time I remember feeling it all as quite unfair. At any rate, the realization that I had been such an asshole, no, that I'd actually been way worse than just an asshole, I'd been a mean asshole, hit me pretty hard and I was filled with massive remorse. All I wanted to do was apologize -- but she was DEAD! Frankly, the whole thing was really kinda sad.
A few years ago an ex of mine (who dumped me), died. We'd lost touch, but I heard about it through old friends. What sucks is that she was quite young. What is weird is that after hearing of her death, I had a few dreams about her. In the dreams she was yelling at me (in our two year relationship she never yelled, ever) and telling me how horrible I was at relationships. So I started thinking about her and our relationship and recognized that she was right, that I really was bad at being in a relationship. I communicated rarely and when I did I was aloof and distracted. I am ashamed to say that I think I went for months without looking her in the eye. I judged her for her inability to find a job, I criticized her for her shyness at parties, and one time, oh god, I even called her fat.
No wonder she dumped me, though at the time I remember feeling it all as quite unfair. At any rate, the realization that I had been such an asshole, no, that I'd actually been way worse than just an asshole, I'd been a mean asshole, hit me pretty hard and I was filled with massive remorse. All I wanted to do was apologize -- but she was DEAD! Frankly, the whole thing was really kinda sad.
Selasa, 13 Oktober 2009
Dear Serial: Who buys dinner?
Dear Serial,
So, I'm back into the dating scene again after a 15-year hiatus, and am totally clueless about protocol, etc. I figured that you, Ms. Serial, as a renowned and infamous serial dater, might have some advice on first dates, having had SOOOOOO many.
So, I have a date tomorrow with a friend of a friend. We're planning to go out for dinner, and I'm unsure about the whole payment thing. I mean, it used to be that dudes were always expected to pay, but when I was dating before, that wasn't always the deal. I mean, some women were actually offended by that and felt like if the man paid, there was an expectation. Plus, this is a reaaaaallly casual date. I have no idea if I'm at all "into" this woman. I'm kinda just wanting to go on some dates and see how it all works again.
So, should I pay or not?
Mr. Completely Out Of the Loop
Dear Mr. Cool (nice work on that one, by the by),
Yes. Pay for dinner.
Love,
Serial
OK, cool, sorry. You probably were looking for some justification on this one. So just to be sure, I surveyed women of various ages, and all said that yes, they want a man to pay for dinner. One response was, and I'm not making this up, "If he wants a blow job he'll pay."
Now, I'm not saying buying dinner automatically entitles you to a blow job, you'll have to show up with flowers or something in order to earn that (and not roses, for the love of god). Most women will go on a date with the expectation that she might have to pay half. One woman said that she always takes enough cash to pay for half of dinner and a cab ride home. Now maybe my sample's unenlightened and anti-feminist, but ... there's a good chance that a lady who's going to go on such a traditional first date is not exactly avant-garde.
Personally, if I go out with a guy, and offer to pay half (I always offer), and my cash doesn't get turned down, I assume he's not that into me. So, I guess if that's the message you want to convey, then by all means, split the check. Hell, try to get her to pay. That could work out really well for you, I guess. Perhaps she's rich and looking for a kept man? Stranger things have happened.
XOXO Cool,
Serial
Got a question for the Serial Monogamist? Send it on over to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Kamis, 08 Oktober 2009
just to be sure I thought I'd ask
When a young woman tells you to "stop doing that with your toes and get out of my house in fact forget it i'm calling the cops and im telling all our friends what you did and i cant believe you did that i feel sick to my stomach." is there any possible way that she's just playing hard to get? My intuition tells me that she was actually upset, but just to be sure i thought I'd ask.
Sabtu, 03 Oktober 2009
Arm twisting
Last night, I had a newish squeeze over for a movie. I succumbed to a frantic week, and passed out about 20 minutes in. I woke to the credits, and a large hand pinching my thigh.
"Hmf," I said, in my best imitation of myself from Jr. High, "Can't I just sleep here?"
"You can sleep wherever you want," he said. "I'm gonna go get naked and get in your bed."
And that, boys, is how you convince a lady.
"Hmf," I said, in my best imitation of myself from Jr. High, "Can't I just sleep here?"
"You can sleep wherever you want," he said. "I'm gonna go get naked and get in your bed."
And that, boys, is how you convince a lady.
Selasa, 29 September 2009
Jumat, 25 September 2009
Things I learned the hard way
- Taking relationships slow is rarely regrettable. OK, there was that one time that you took things slow and the potential love of your life got hit by a car before you got a chance to see where things were going, but other than that? Draw out twitterpation. It's good for the soul.
- Just because your mom wants you to ask your boyfriend to be in the family Olan Mills photos she's scheduling doesn't mean you should ask him.
- If you're going to plan a vacation to Mexico with a new boyfriend and his family, be sure you're comfortable enough to ask them if you can stop at the store for some anti-diarrheal medication. You also might want to be sure you can handle a surf-related wardrobe malfunction in front of his dad. Especially if you're not so good at ducking waves (Note to non-Pacific NW readers: People from Oregon don't usually swim in the Ocean, it's too effing cold. So that whole counter-intuitive dive into the wave to avoid getting smashed by it thing? Some of us missed that lesson.)
C'mon readers. What did you learn the hard way?
- Just because your mom wants you to ask your boyfriend to be in the family Olan Mills photos she's scheduling doesn't mean you should ask him.
- If you're going to plan a vacation to Mexico with a new boyfriend and his family, be sure you're comfortable enough to ask them if you can stop at the store for some anti-diarrheal medication. You also might want to be sure you can handle a surf-related wardrobe malfunction in front of his dad. Especially if you're not so good at ducking waves (Note to non-Pacific NW readers: People from Oregon don't usually swim in the Ocean, it's too effing cold. So that whole counter-intuitive dive into the wave to avoid getting smashed by it thing? Some of us missed that lesson.)
C'mon readers. What did you learn the hard way?
Senin, 21 September 2009
High maintenance
I recently went out on a perfectly fine little first date. Date was on time, cute enough, and the conversation was good. So good, in fact, that we were both shocked to discover that it was nearly 2 a.m.
As I waited for a cab, he stood on the curb with me, close enough to smell. Smelled nice. We talked about seeing "Action Flick by That One Really Good Director," and he said he'd call me to arrange it, told me he would be out of town for a couple of days, but he'd be back by midweek. As my cab pulled up, I saw him going for a kiss, but I was feeling like dragging things out (anticipation can be fun), so I have him a hug, a big smile and a wink, and I was off.
A week later, nay, more than a week later, I got a text:
"Seen Action Flick Yet?"
I was a little confused about why it had taken so long to make any contact, but I shrugged and replied:
"Not yet."
A week later, I sent a text:
"Cat got your tongue? Well, no worries, I'll see it solo. Best, June."
He replied:
"No no, my friend. I just wasn't particularly enthused by your response. What time do you get off work this week?"
Really, internet? Would you go out with a guy who's that high-maintenance? I mean, what did he want, a smiley face emoticon at the end of the text?
Is there an emoticon that means "Fat Chance"?
As I waited for a cab, he stood on the curb with me, close enough to smell. Smelled nice. We talked about seeing "Action Flick by That One Really Good Director," and he said he'd call me to arrange it, told me he would be out of town for a couple of days, but he'd be back by midweek. As my cab pulled up, I saw him going for a kiss, but I was feeling like dragging things out (anticipation can be fun), so I have him a hug, a big smile and a wink, and I was off.
A week later, nay, more than a week later, I got a text:
"Seen Action Flick Yet?"
I was a little confused about why it had taken so long to make any contact, but I shrugged and replied:
"Not yet."
A week later, I sent a text:
"Cat got your tongue? Well, no worries, I'll see it solo. Best, June."
He replied:
"No no, my friend. I just wasn't particularly enthused by your response. What time do you get off work this week?"
Really, internet? Would you go out with a guy who's that high-maintenance? I mean, what did he want, a smiley face emoticon at the end of the text?
Is there an emoticon that means "Fat Chance"?
Rabu, 16 September 2009
Tweezed Out
**Today's guest post comes in from "G. Ross"**
I'm sick of DIW. Sorry to say, but I am. It has way too many stories from chicks who just rip on dudes. Makes me wonder if it's become a front for a bunch of angry dykes who don't know how to actually be with a man.
I digress.
I'm sending this story in about a woman I began dating a few months ago to try and offset all the male-bashing going on. This site used to be better. It used to have stories from guys about the very real phenomenon of crazy chicks. What happened? Where'd c.vance go? My father always taught me that if you're going to bitch about something then you better be prepared to try and fix it. So here's to you pops.
S**** and I began dating after a heavy night of drinking. Blah blah...one night stand...turned into a first date....and here we are hanging out four months later. She's a cool girl. Into a lot of the same stuff I am. Doesn't run her mouth too much and when she does, it's not complete inane blathering. So she's got that going for her.
Everything's been going great. Good sex. Decent conversation. Not overly clingly. Just great. Until a few nights ago when I walked in on her in the bathroom.
Now my pops also told me that women have bags of tricks that men should never, ever try to open. This is what makes them female, he said. Appreciate the magic but don't try to understand the magic. Apparently the bathroom is where women practice their magic. Wish he had told me that one.
We'd just finished having sex and S**** jumped out of bed to "freshen up" as women-folk like to say. Ok, fine. Whatever. About 12 minutes go by. My need to pee is pretty intense by now. I originally thought she'd take no more than 5 minutes. How much water do you need to splash down there to freshen up ladies?
How wrong I was.
I finally say fuck it and knock on the bathroom door. No answer. Dude. I need to piss. Bad. So I say fuck it again and open the door.
S**** is kneeling on top of the sink, inches away from the mirror, plucking hairs from her nipples. She screams when I walk in and falls off the counter. I am so startled I just stand there, mouth gaping.
She begins yelling at me about fucking knocking and bum rushes me out of the bathroom. I am too bewildered by what I saw to do anything except allow her to shoo me out. I go to the porch and take a leak off the side of it. Thank god for dicks.
We haven't discussed it. Thank god. It's weird though. The image in burned into my mind. Sometimes it flashes while we're having sex and I go to suck on her tits. Weird dude. Fucking weird. Chicks are weird.
I'm sick of DIW. Sorry to say, but I am. It has way too many stories from chicks who just rip on dudes. Makes me wonder if it's become a front for a bunch of angry dykes who don't know how to actually be with a man.
I digress.
I'm sending this story in about a woman I began dating a few months ago to try and offset all the male-bashing going on. This site used to be better. It used to have stories from guys about the very real phenomenon of crazy chicks. What happened? Where'd c.vance go? My father always taught me that if you're going to bitch about something then you better be prepared to try and fix it. So here's to you pops.
S**** and I began dating after a heavy night of drinking. Blah blah...one night stand...turned into a first date....and here we are hanging out four months later. She's a cool girl. Into a lot of the same stuff I am. Doesn't run her mouth too much and when she does, it's not complete inane blathering. So she's got that going for her.
Everything's been going great. Good sex. Decent conversation. Not overly clingly. Just great. Until a few nights ago when I walked in on her in the bathroom.
Now my pops also told me that women have bags of tricks that men should never, ever try to open. This is what makes them female, he said. Appreciate the magic but don't try to understand the magic. Apparently the bathroom is where women practice their magic. Wish he had told me that one.
We'd just finished having sex and S**** jumped out of bed to "freshen up" as women-folk like to say. Ok, fine. Whatever. About 12 minutes go by. My need to pee is pretty intense by now. I originally thought she'd take no more than 5 minutes. How much water do you need to splash down there to freshen up ladies?
How wrong I was.
I finally say fuck it and knock on the bathroom door. No answer. Dude. I need to piss. Bad. So I say fuck it again and open the door.
S**** is kneeling on top of the sink, inches away from the mirror, plucking hairs from her nipples. She screams when I walk in and falls off the counter. I am so startled I just stand there, mouth gaping.
She begins yelling at me about fucking knocking and bum rushes me out of the bathroom. I am too bewildered by what I saw to do anything except allow her to shoo me out. I go to the porch and take a leak off the side of it. Thank god for dicks.
We haven't discussed it. Thank god. It's weird though. The image in burned into my mind. Sometimes it flashes while we're having sex and I go to suck on her tits. Weird dude. Fucking weird. Chicks are weird.
Minggu, 13 September 2009
All about ass
*** Today we have an anonymous guest post with a little (though direct) message for the fellas ***
Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.
Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.
Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).
Thank you.
Hey, so I just want to say, from a woman's perspective, for all the guys out there: I do not want you to put things in my ass. If I do want you to put something in my ass, I'll go ahead and tell you. Otherwise, maybe it's safe to assume that no, I do not want you to put your dick or your finger in my ass.
Seriously, every dude I'm with, when we're going at it, and I'm getting close, will grab hold of the cheeks (THIS IS GOOD!) and then a finger will wander southward. THIS IS NOT GOOD. I'm trying to focus on getting off, I do not need to be thinking, "Oh, god, is he putting his finger in my ass? What if his finger smells afterward?" It's just goddam distracting. The thing is, guys, women do not have prostates. So applying pressure to my arse doesn't feel the same for me as it does for you. Are you trying to tell me you want me to put my finger in yours when you're about to come? If so, then tell me by TELLING ME. I'll do it. No biggie. Don't tell me by sticking your finger in my pooper.
Now, I know some women are into anal. You know what though? They're into it. They'll ask for it. Or, you can ask them for it, and they'll agree to it. Don't test the waters by trying to dipstick a test run. Among other things, if you shove your peter in my crapper, you then can't stick it in my vag. There are bacteria that live in the back door that should not go to the front (this is where the whole "front to back" thing comes from).
Thank you.
Selasa, 08 September 2009
More on staying friends with exes
A recent text conversation:
"I'll be home at 7 lover."
"I'm not your lover."
"What?"
"Check your outbox. You sent me a message clearly not intended for me."
"Oh, sorry. Don't know how that happened."
"Douche."
"I'll be home at 7 lover."
"I'm not your lover."
"What?"
"Check your outbox. You sent me a message clearly not intended for me."
"Oh, sorry. Don't know how that happened."
"Douche."
Kamis, 03 September 2009
Dear Serial: I humped my friend's husband
Dear Serial,
Apparently, a friend of mind just found out I fucked her husband. Thing is, it only happened one time, and it was years and years ago. I mean, it happened more than 10 years ago. It happened before they even got together, it was before I even got together with my now husband. Now, we’re all really good friends and have been for years, but recently, she’s saying weird stuff like, “sometimes you just wish you didn’t know things” and just being kind of strange towards me.
I told my husband about that pity-fuck years ago, he’s not upset. What should I say to my friend?
Thanks,
Married and not going there ever again
Dear MANGTEA (that’s kind of funny, at first when I looked at that, I thought it said Mangenta, which would clearly be a hot new color in men’s wear, much more masculine than purple),
Don’t say a thing. You did your duty and disclosed your long-forgotten pity fuck to your husband; it was pally over there’s job to tell HIS wife about any potentially-awkward fucks, oh, I dunno, maybe before they got married? That is, of course, if he was going to tell her. There’s a certain point at which, if you haven’t mentioned it already, you should just let the fuck lie.
Plus, what if you say something, and that’s not what she was talking about? Especially if he hasn’t told her? That conversation’s going to be fun. “Oh, you were talking about how you finally noticed that I dog-eared your grandmother’s copy of Gone With the Wind? Oh. Heh. Well nevermind all that about fucking your husband. Oh, and the “pity” thing? What did I mean by that? Well certainly did not mean that I’m more attractive than your husband or that he was super desperate in the period leading up to him getting with you. No. Not at all.”
Leave it be, Mangenta.
Love,
Serial
Got a question for Serial Monogamist? Want to tell her how full of shit she is? Do it. We dare ya. Send your email to seriallymonogamous[at]gmail[dot]com.
Minggu, 30 Agustus 2009
Snuggiesutra
There's a chance you haven't heard of the abomination that is the Snuggie (I think half the haters out there secretly want one):
And just for fun, and your edification, we'll include the popular parody video, too:
Well thank the lord for the internet. Because some genius has created a new Web site, the Snuggiesutra. Because I just KNOW you were fresh out of ideas on how to integrate the Snuggie into your love life.
Here's one position called The Tablecloth:
"She lies on the table. He wears the Snuggie on his front while the bottom end covers her. It’s just not a holiday without stuffing."
And just for fun, and your edification, we'll include the popular parody video, too:
Well thank the lord for the internet. Because some genius has created a new Web site, the Snuggiesutra. Because I just KNOW you were fresh out of ideas on how to integrate the Snuggie into your love life.
Here's one position called The Tablecloth:
"She lies on the table. He wears the Snuggie on his front while the bottom end covers her. It’s just not a holiday without stuffing."
Rabu, 26 Agustus 2009
If you're single, there's someting wrong with you
Katie Ett over at Unapologetically Mundane posted the following this week:
Did you catch that part, beloved DIW readers, about perpetually single folk? It bears repeating: "If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you."
That's what Katie thinks. What about you, is there something wrong with perpetually single folk?
“More to Love” is my favourite/most hated show on television right now. I was torn between it and “NYC Prep” on the first Tuesday night it aired, but after watching 20 fat women cry nonstop for an hour, I knew I made the right choice, and I’ve been making it every week since.
I’m not a person who believes weight has anything to do with love. I’m not thin, and I’ve loved and been loved in return by all sorts of men, thin and not-thin themselves. (But mostly thin, because fat people are gross. (Kidding.)) These big-boned ladies all truly believe, though, that their one shot at love is this 26-year-old spike-haired real estate developer who likes to eat and doesn’t want a woman who watches her weight.
And they all cry about it throughout every episode. Their skinny friends get hit on at bars. They’ve never had serious boyfriends. They’ve never been on a single date. And there’s a reason for that.
If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you. There, I said it. Don’t blame it on men being superficial. Blame it on you being a crappy date. Unless you live in the middle of smalltown Iowa, in which case I’m a little more sympathetic, but seriously, it’s probably still your fault, especially if you’re one of those assholes who scorns Internet dating. Whenever I hear some fat chick say, “I have no idea why I’m alone!”, I want to go through a laundry list for her, because it’s always so obvious. Even the guys who are willing to look past your weight can’t deal with your jacked-up face, your total lack of humor, your junior high vocabulary, and your skank clothes.
For instance, not a single one of the women in the two episodes of “More to Love” I’ve watched has said something funny. In fact, when Luke asks each of them in turn if they’ll wear the ring that signifies their staying on the show another week, each of them in turn says, “Of course.” I’ve been waiting for even just one of them to say “bitch, please” or fake like they don’t want it only to throw their arms around him and snatch it out of his hands a second later, but they’re all so worried about losing their “one” chance for “true” love that all behave like robots. Whiny, sobbing robots.
My boyfriend called the show depressing, but I really delight in watching these pathetic women mope around. None of them are actually the least bit interested in this guy specifically, as far as I can tell, and are only interested in him being interested in them. And he’s too pleased with the opportunity to grope 20 fatties to care. I mean, MAYBE the producers are hiding the parts where Luke and the ladies have deep, meaningful conversation about politics and religion, but it seems like the most intimate information the group has about Luke is the name of his dog.
I had a long-distance relationship like this once: the guy would want to talk about how interested he was in the sinking of the Titanic every single time he called me–I mean, he really, really loved the Titanic–and I just wanted to talk about how in love we were. But I realized I was using him, whereas these girls are planning their weddings.
And the worst part is that they make absolutely none of this secret to him. They tell him that they’d pursue their music careers if only they had better images. They tell him that they’re virgins. They tell him, “You’re my first second date.” And he uses these confidings as teachable moments where he gets to build their self-confidence by calling them sexy and telling them to believe in themselves. And they cry.
It’s pretty clear that in the end, Luke’s going to pick the thinnest/prettiest girl in the house regardless of her personality, and all the other girls who were using his choosing her as sole proof that there’s hope for fat girls are going to kill themselves.
I finally asked my boyfriend why I’ve been able to find love when these women haven’t, and he said, “Because you’re not psychotic.” Win.
Did you catch that part, beloved DIW readers, about perpetually single folk? It bears repeating: "If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you."
That's what Katie thinks. What about you, is there something wrong with perpetually single folk?
Senin, 24 Agustus 2009
More on being friends with exes
"The girls who work with my new girlfriend said you walked by the other day and were glaring at her."
"The girls who work with your new girlfriend know who I am?"
"I guess so."
"Huh. Why would I do that? That's stupid."
"I know."
"Did you tell them that I wasn't glaring, that that's just what my face looks like?"
"Yeah, I told her you just have sort of a scowely face."
"Thanks, dude."
"The girls who work with your new girlfriend know who I am?"
"I guess so."
"Huh. Why would I do that? That's stupid."
"I know."
"Did you tell them that I wasn't glaring, that that's just what my face looks like?"
"Yeah, I told her you just have sort of a scowely face."
"Thanks, dude."
Jumat, 21 Agustus 2009
Boobies
*** Editor's note: Alecia in North Carolina's a rare breed on Datingisweird.com, a guest blogger unafraid to use her real name. Take that, Anonymous! ***
So I met this guy online. We'll call him Idiot. Idiot and I spoke for a couple weeks via email, IM, phone calls and text. He seemed like a really nice guy and we had a lot of common interests. He lives about an hour away so getting together for coffee wasn't as easy as all that, but eventually we did make plans for a Friday night.
So, I get all dolled up. Black pants, sexy tank top, little make up, little perfume, I'm good to go. I waited for him to arrive with excitement and just a touch of nervousness, but I honestly just knew we were going to have a good time. Idiot arrives and gets out of the car to shake my hand and say hi. I hop in and first things first, we have to make a quick trip to Target because apparently he needed to get his nephew some birthday present. We're on our way and literally, about a whole 2 minutes into the ride Idiot looks over at me and says, "Your boobies look nice."
I'm sorry...uuhhh...what? My inner thoughts: "You're 29 years old and you still say boobies? And secondly, what the fuck dude?"
I didn't actually say these things; I just told him to shut up. Idiot laughs, "Okay, okay, sorry." So I thought to myself, oh he just had a dumb guy moment. We get to the store and everything is good. I move on, I forget for a bit that he mentioned my tits and referred to them as boobies. We arrive at dinner and Idiot orders a mass amount of food which I find not only disturbing, but also hilarious as he just got done telling me how "healthy" he was trying to be. Umm, yeah, when you order the salad, it actually stops being good for you when you pile a half a pound of cheese on it, and bacon, and chicken, croutons and a half gallon of ranch dressing. (no, I don't care that the bottle says "Light" - you're retarded) Anyway...as we sit there and I begin to munch, him shovel, I notice that Idiot's leering at me; staring at me in this very intrusive way that has me tugging at my shirt again.
Finally I look at him and I say, "What? Why the crap are you staring at me like that?"
Idiot: "You know, it's funny...out of all the girls I've dated, you're not all my type, HOWEVER, I kinda wanna do you right now."
My inner thoughts: "Do me? Did he really just tell me over my Greek salad that he wants to DO me? Awesome." The people at the table next to us gasped and choked. I felt their pain.
Me: "Can you bring me home now? No, like...right now. Stop eating, check, car. Let's go."
So I met this guy online. We'll call him Idiot. Idiot and I spoke for a couple weeks via email, IM, phone calls and text. He seemed like a really nice guy and we had a lot of common interests. He lives about an hour away so getting together for coffee wasn't as easy as all that, but eventually we did make plans for a Friday night.
So, I get all dolled up. Black pants, sexy tank top, little make up, little perfume, I'm good to go. I waited for him to arrive with excitement and just a touch of nervousness, but I honestly just knew we were going to have a good time. Idiot arrives and gets out of the car to shake my hand and say hi. I hop in and first things first, we have to make a quick trip to Target because apparently he needed to get his nephew some birthday present. We're on our way and literally, about a whole 2 minutes into the ride Idiot looks over at me and says, "Your boobies look nice."
I'm sorry...uuhhh...what? My inner thoughts: "You're 29 years old and you still say boobies? And secondly, what the fuck dude?"
I didn't actually say these things; I just told him to shut up. Idiot laughs, "Okay, okay, sorry." So I thought to myself, oh he just had a dumb guy moment. We get to the store and everything is good. I move on, I forget for a bit that he mentioned my tits and referred to them as boobies. We arrive at dinner and Idiot orders a mass amount of food which I find not only disturbing, but also hilarious as he just got done telling me how "healthy" he was trying to be. Umm, yeah, when you order the salad, it actually stops being good for you when you pile a half a pound of cheese on it, and bacon, and chicken, croutons and a half gallon of ranch dressing. (no, I don't care that the bottle says "Light" - you're retarded) Anyway...as we sit there and I begin to munch, him shovel, I notice that Idiot's leering at me; staring at me in this very intrusive way that has me tugging at my shirt again.
Finally I look at him and I say, "What? Why the crap are you staring at me like that?"
Idiot: "You know, it's funny...out of all the girls I've dated, you're not all my type, HOWEVER, I kinda wanna do you right now."
My inner thoughts: "Do me? Did he really just tell me over my Greek salad that he wants to DO me? Awesome." The people at the table next to us gasped and choked. I felt their pain.
Me: "Can you bring me home now? No, like...right now. Stop eating, check, car. Let's go."
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