The Saucy Single Life

Steve had so many quirks I don’t even know where to begin. I can’t think of one of them that was actually a turn-on.

For one, he prided himself on his seriously weird t-shirt collection. Yellow shirt with the phrase “best service in town,” green shirt with Elmo…that kind of thing. Guys, stop dressing like a 5 year old who shops at Kohl’s and get some personal style.
Buffalo Exchange anyone?

Ok back to the story. Steve was also Jewish, which isn’t a quirk at all, but what was seriously demented was the fact that he pretended to be an “Italian Catholic” rather than pride himself on his Jewish background. He went so far as to even speak with a mock Italian accent at the Italian restaurant we went to on our date in Yardley (“Yo, we’ll have an order of the bruchet”, completely cutting off the “a”)

He was also a complete Momma’s Boi. I can’t even tell you what Steve does for a living..but I saw his house and it’s a really nice effin house. All paid for by Momma Dukes.

So Steve and I decide to meet at this Italian restaurant, and he pulls up in a Cadillac Escalade. Also paid for by Mommy. Perfect. Couldn’t fit the stereotype better. He has a popped collar and spiky gelled hair. And a silver chain around his neck. Which I can see because the first three buttons on his shirt are undone.

Steve’s very forward with the compliments and the stares, and I down a glass of red wine within the first ten minutes of him ordering the tomato deliciousness that is bruschetta. I’m feeling like a piece of meat that this “Italian” can’t wait to devour.

The dinner conversation is where Steve starts to reveal some of his quirks and really win me over. The shirt collection makes its first conversational appearance here, as well as his throw back Nintendo collection including one of my personal favorites, “Bubble Bobble”…which is eventually how Steve gets me to come back to his place.

That and he has a chocolate lab that might as well have been named Fruit Cup.

Once back at his place, he turns into Annoying, I’m Trying to Impress you with my Dog Trainerman Skillz because my personality leaves so much to be desired you’d rather have a Dry Cleaner steam your tongue than sit here with me on this god awful date.

And weird weird thing. He has turned his office into a jail cell, I mean, bedroom, for Fruit Cup. Complete with baby gate and all…and poor Fruity is locked in there so often that there are like serious nail scrapes up and down the walls, as well as newspaper all over the floor, and furniture legs that have been chewed upon.

Somehow, my horniness that evening gets the best of me, and I find myself in Steve’s bed, only to be greeted by one of the smallest penises I have ever seen. Before he could even get within five inches of my pachanga, Steve ejaculates all over his brown Nicole Miller duvet. I’d like to claim it’s my mad skills in the bedroom, but this, my friends, was just a sight to be blindfolded for.

As I’m getting up and trying to get fully clothed, Steve shoots me a look that could inflict guilt on the Devil himself. “Aren’t we gonna cuddle?”

Kelly:“Ooooh. Ok, sure, yea, definitely. Um, but I can’t stay long, I have to go to (fuck think of something quick fuckface) um, I have to go soon.”

Steve:“You don’t have anywhere to be but here with me(and as I sit down, he squeezes me into the most uncomfortable little spoon I have ever been) and besides, I want to tell you something.”

Literally THREE hours later, I am finally behind the wheel of my blessed freedom mobile…emancipated from this cum covered duvet shitstorm of a date, only to be shaking my head in utter congestion.

Around ten minutes into the spoonfest, Steve had started to tell me that he was, in fact, an Indigo Child. And I actually did look this up when I got home, because it was at that point that I started to zone out completely. Have you ever had to fart so bad that it literally made you short of breath because your lung capacity was being shrunken by the huge amount of gas taking up your abdominal cavity? I was concentrating so hard on not farting that I’m surprised I even remembered a word of it.
I might have even fallen asleep for a few minutes in there.

Here’s what I found on Wikipedia: In the New Age movement, indigo children are children who are believed to represent a higher state of human evolution. The term itself is a reference to the belief that such children have indigo “life colours.”[1] Beliefs concerning the exact nature of indigo children vary, with some believing that they have paranormal abilities such as the ability to read minds, and others that they are distinguished from non-indigo children merely by more conventional traits such as increased empathy and creativity.”

And part of Steve’s belief as an indigo child, was that he had me figured out completely, despite the fact that he did most of the talking on our date and probably asked all of one question…which was “how big are dem titties?” He believed he had the ability to read minds and see the dead, along with other indigo talents.

He also wouldn’t let me leave. Every attempt I made was shot down with a tighter squeeze or Steve just continuing to talk despite my futile attempts. He told me that I was sleeping over, and I finally had to literally unglue his arms from around my body and yell at him that I was by no means staying any minutes longer.

The drive home was one of those ones where even listening to music would taint any poor band you heard so badly that I wasn’t even willing to risk it. Plus, my hands could do nothing but grip the steering wheel so hard because it was the only thing that could help me withstand the labor pain of birthing my ass gas.

A friend of mine told me a story recently, and I begged for her to guest blog. The little gem, which she chugged out last night, is here below. Enjoy to your heart’s content!

So, after much deliberation, I’ve decided to make this guest blog anonymous. I usually have no problem getting hammered and telling complete strangers much too personal information. I love making friends and I have an easy formula that usually goes something like this: booze, say something about farts or sex, we all have a fun time. Yep, just kick back and wait for me to ingratiate myself to you through grody, self-deprecating jock humor.

But I’m getting older and it’s weird when you’re at a party and someone says, for instance, “hey, that’s the girl who told us about shitting her pants in her mother’s arms” or “ask her about the time a man jumped off her naked body and ran out of his own home into the night” or even “Is she really talking about sucking a dick in the back alley?”

Also shaping my decision for anonymity is the fact that my confidence has lately been eroded through a horrible, crushing break-up and subsequent over-snacking. Basically, I’m a mess. So, I think it might be time for a revamp. The new me will be mature, demure, feminine…sober (???) and I will stop telling stories like this one any day now:

There was a man who I thought I would marry. We’ll call him Flakes, meaning dandruff. I fantasized about us being a young couple in the Dust Bowl, surviving hardships like the Great Depression, drinking whiskey, laughing and fucking despite. I was loyal and felt happy to turn other guys down. I dumped him, sadly, after almost a year because reality set in: he was drinking all the whiskey alone, never changing his pants, and letting his soul die slowly. After, I tried not to miss Flakes. I went on dates with a guy with a dog and banged a European on my friend’s bathroom sink.

I didn’t see him for almost 3 months but then me and Flakes got together for a football game and ended up screwing. I was overwhelmed. He dizzied me with his romantic words and, I swear, if he asked, I may even have put on nipple clamps and squatted over a chamber pot, like the girls in those nudie mags he hides in his closet. Um. Well, not that far, Flakes.

Anywho, I wanted to pretend I still had some free-will against this truly magnetic pull, so I went to New York for the weekend and called up the European I mentioned above. Euro spun me around on the dance floor and said things to make me giggle, like “bobby dazzlers” and “drink more beer!” So later I submitted, doggy-style, to his drunken attempts to penetrate me. The condom was practically squeaking, I was so dry. I was so relieved when he finally c- uuhh- uuuuhhhh-uhhhh! –ame–until he pulled the shredded condom out of my cunt. I think I said a little joke like, “the only way I’m calling you again is if I find out I’m having your baby.” He bailed in the morning and I was left alone with my friend, Dan, and a splitting hangover, dreaming about Flakes.

Before I ran out to catch the Fung Wah, Dan tried to cheer me up with some loud, smelly farts. Half-heartedly, I joined in. I squared up, looked him straight in the eye, and… shit my pants! OOPS. But as horrified as I was, I was also in a rush so I opted for efficiency: I threw my underpants in the trash, cleaned the area, and hauled ass to the bus stop. Well, all that “hauling” must have jostled me to the brink because when I got onto the bus, I had to run straight to the toilet. Phew. Made it this time! I win!!!!! Ha—NOT QUITE. There is no toilet paper. Looking around my cell, I find a wad of paper towels. I had no choice but to rub this germy wad on my soft parts.

When I got back to my seat, I was disheartened, homesick, and lovesick. I was ashamed and vulnerable. I txtd Flakes and went straight to his house after I got off the bus. We had romantic “I love you” sex and cuddled and I stopped fighting my reservations about him. I got dressed and Flakes got a glass of water. He came back and sat down next to me as we decide where to go for a snack.

I went to stand up and Flakes says: “Oh, do you want THIS back?” On the tip of his finger is a white square, a transparent shred.

“What’s that?” I say.

He says, “It’s a piece of a condom, I think.”

“Where the fuck did that come from?” I say defensively.

“It was on your thigh while we were screwing.” It’s slowly setting in that this sex scrap must have been marinating for hours and floated out of my vagina during the deed. Flakes can’t know. I can’t ruin our romance for this horrifying, chaffing, meaningless mistake!!!

So I say, “Ew, I slept in Tim’s bed. That’s so disgusting. I can’t believe it, it must have gay butts on it.”

Flakes thought that was funny and sick and that was the end of it. The good part is that no one got diseases or babies and I blamed the whole thing on someone else. A month and a half later, Flakes turned out to be a jerk–just as lazy as before and consistently cheating on me with a secret lover. But HA!– when I’m sad, turning to snacks for comfort, I think of this story to feel a little jazzy. I am the girl who secretly made Flakes’ privates filthier than he will ever know.

The topic that has been runnin’ through my mind lately has been a compilation of things not to do on a first date. To make it as original as possible, I’m going to highlight things that have all happened to me on dates, specifically in the last two years.

1. Don’t crane your neck to look at other women. And then after said neck craning, don’t ask me what I thought of that girl’s ass that just walked by.

2. Don’t be so nervous you can’t make eye contact with your date.

3. Don’t say you’re gonna call and then don’t.

4. Don’t assume that because I just brought you home and effed you, that I want you to stay over.

5. Don’t wait 3 days to call just because there is some dumb rule that says that. Who came up with that rule? I’d like to meet this person and shake their gonads in a centrifugal force field.

6. Don’t be mean. To your date, to the service staff, to other people. Just don’t.

7. Don’t text throughout a date or answer your cell phone. Unless it’s a real emergency.

8. Don’t talk about your medications.

9. Don’t be afraid to laugh and let loose. It’s all about seeing eachother’s true personalities anyway.

10. Don’t force someone to stay on a date with you.

11. If you’re gonna talk politics, be ready for someone to have a differing opinion than yours. And don’t be mean to them because of it.

12. Don’t give a gift on a first date. I have received collars, books, flowers, lists of get-to-know you questions. Until we know each other better, it is just awkward. And if I end up crawling out a basement in West Philly to get away from you, I don’t want anything else to have to carry. But by all means, if you make it to a second date, let the gift exchange begin.

13. Don’t order for your date. Unless of course, they have no voice box.

14. Don’t assume the person you are with is having a good time. Don’t assume they want sexual advances made on them. Just ask.

15. Don’t spank a woman in public without a safe word. Which is extremely unlikely to have been established on a first date.

16. Don’t lie about how you look and then act surprised if you get called out on it.

17. Don’t take things too seriously. If it’s not meant to work, forcing it ain’t gonna work either.

18. Don’t insult anyone.

19. Don’t cry. If you’re feeling especially weepy, maybe you should cancel the date but give the reason.

20. Don’t wait until the last minute to cancel.

21. Never, ever, be a no-show unless you are dead in a gutter, your cell phone broke and nobody will lend you theirs, your dog needs emergency vet care, or some other horrible thing I hope never happens to you. ALWAYS call to tell someone if you can’t make it. Karma is a bitch.

22. If someone tells you their dog might eat your shoes if you leave them on the floor, expect that their dog will eat your shoes if you leave them on their floor.

23. Don’t tell someone you want to marry them on a first date. Yes, men do this too.

24. If you were unfortunate enough to be born without a voice box, tell the person before the date. Same goes for if you were born with one arm, a glass eye, etc. Not so that the person can discriminate your ass, but just so they are aware.

25. Don’t ask a girl out on a date and then expect “cementing my neighbor’s foundation” to count as a first date. If said girl is cool enough to help you cement your neighbor’s foundation, take the little lass out for a beer for Christ’s sake. Macaroni noodles with canned tomatoes doesn’t count as cooking for someone.

26. Don’t push your own ideas for how you live your life onto someone else. Just because you’re a vegetarian doesn’t mean everyone else has to be. Just because you don’t wear makeup doesn’t mean everyone’s as good looking as you.

27. Don’t lie.

28. Don’t just talk about yourself. This can be tricky, especially if you’re nervous. But if you seem to be only interested in yourself, maybe you should have just gone out on a date with yourself.

29. Don’t say to your date “wow look how huge your thigh is compared to mine” unless you want all hell to break loose.

30. Don’t talk about your escapades with strippers on a first date.

31. At least OFFER to pay.

32. Don’t classify someone and assume you know everything about them on a first date and treat them rudely.

33. Don’t talk about how cool your emotionally abusive friends are.

34. Don’t talk about your desire to someday have a harem.

35. Don’t assume that because I work in the health care industry that I care to hear the gory details about the four kidney stones you passed in the last two years.

36. If you MUST go tanning, please don’t do so on the day of the date.

37. Don’t get beyond legal limit drunk on a first date.

38. Don’t stare at my tits the whole time.

39. Don’t believe chivalry is dead. Hold a door open, walk me back to my car, just as long as it seems natural and not like you’re only doing it because you think my grandma might be hearing about it later on.

40. Don’t tell someone that you have been courting for two weeks, on your first date that you can’t handle commitment.

41. Don’t shut down emotionally on a date and give one word answers.

42. As hard as it may be, try not to talk about too much sexual stuff on a first date.

Joe was one kinky motherfuckin’ dork. Just the kind of guy I find myself totally attracted to on a daily basis. One that looks like an innocent little petunia but you start to peel away the layers and realize there’s a horny little leprechaun under all that sweet red hair.

While he didn’t open the door to his den of iniquity right away, I must have sensed something going in, or else I doubt I would have agreed to a date.

What I did know going in: Joe was an IT guy, he was divorced, and he was very openminded. He was a sweet looking guy, like an elementary school choral director, or that happy-go-lucky library checkout clerk type. And the glasses, oh the glasses. What is it with me and dudes that wear glasses? I just wanna do dirty effin things to them and pound them so hard the little glass lenses crack but neither of us care and we continue to bang each other so aggressively the glasses get smushed down over the cheek and….

We had a few email and phone conversations in which he detailed how stringent his mother was growing up, and how she made him think all things sexual were a sin. (By the way…if you ever have the pleasure to meet one of these reformed sinners…myself included…effin brace yourself for the sexfest that might ensue). He described how he had been a chunky kid and how he recently lost alot of weight and was beginning to really explore things in life and live for himself and not his mother.

The wheels were a turnin’ in my mind…and honestly I couldn’t wait to get to know him better.

On our first date, Joe continued to prove to be a total conundrum to me. As innocent as he was, he had an enviable deviousness to him. He came across as completely sheltered, but in his thirty five years he actively did his part to educate himself on all things sinful. For example, Joe admitted to me that he had only ever seen three vaginas in his entire life. One belonged to his ex-wife. The second, to his girlfriend he had after his divorce. And the third, he traveled all the way to San Francisco to see. I’m sorry, but I find this completely adorable.

Joe’s naivete became magnified as he told the story of his trip to the San Francisco Sex Worker Festival. He understood that he didn’t know enough about vaginas, and penises too for that matter, so he took a week’s vacation from the IT world and walked around the sex festival searching for his third vagina, which he excitedly described to me ad nauseum over sushi. My mind did a backflip as I envisioned roping Joe to my mission style bed and giving him a private lesson on vagina number four.

As fun as that might be, and although I was having a great time, I was becoming seriously dubious about what kind of connection me and Joe would have. The kinkster in me wanted to rip his clothes off, but the rational inch of my brain decided that the fun in it for me would be only because I was in control. I was looking for more of an equal, someone who would be able to not only keep up with me, but also keep me on my toes. Maybe I was wrong about this one, but my instincts told me Joe had a lot more playing to do before he’d be ready to settle down. Maybe I was projecting, but I smiled as I envisioned Joe on crazy vagina adventures, touring sex museums, and discovering his own specific…tastes.

When the waiter came back to ask if we wanted anything else, and Joe exclaimed that he had never before ordered a beer at a restaurant, I knew my instincts were correct. And I knew that we absolutely had to go across the street for $2.00 you call its at Landmark.

It took three beers to get Joe completely shitfaced. If I had told him to bend over in the bathroom and stick a carrot up his ass and take a picture of it on his iPhone, boy would have done it at that point. Instead, I encouraged him to continue on his sexy little way and get as much experience as he could before he turned into a perverted old man and had to live with regret.

This week I’m baffled by the phenomenon that is Passive Aggressive Email Assholes, or e-asses for short. I’ve encountered a few over the years, but in the last few days, while seriously provoked, I was able to change my reaction to one e-ass in particular.

I’ll back it up a little bit. About a year ago, I received an email from a guy in King of Prussia. Now, this also brings up the other underlying theme of: to reply or not to reply when you’re just not into a guy. I have tested both theories. My response is something to the effect of Hey, thanks so much for taking the time to write me. I don’t think we’re a good match, though. Best of luck to you!

Some guys are so ecstatic to even get an email, they reply with a gracious thanks for letting me know where we stand and then they go on their merry little way. Other guys try to convince you that they are, in fact, Mr. Completely Wrong or Mr. Ego through the Roof.

So a year ago, King of Prussia dude. We could also call him Mr. So Insecure I go into Attack Mode dude. A few reasons why I chose to send him my generic auto-response of no interest: in all three of his profile pictures he was wearing a wife beater and a baseball cap which was on sideways and not completely on his head all the way. He was more orange than an old lady who overdosed on carrots. And his profile was lame, to put it kindly. His initial email to me was something like yo, baby girl, it’s Sunday Funday hit me up.

Charming.

At that time, I was not the self actualized woman I am continuing to become…and Mr. Jaundice and I exchanged an entertaining email banter where he asked me why I wasn’t interested. I figured the honest approach was best, and told him that I was just looking for someone different, blah blah. However, Jaundice face-dude took that as an open invitation to throw the insult darts my way. At which point I decided no further communication was necessary.

So here we are a year, and a handful of e-asses later, and yesterday I received a real kicker…a lovely email from Vince, an electrician in South Philly. This would be the second email this week. I received the first on Thursday, 3/12. The first basically reiterated everything he had already written in his profile (by the way this is the lamest ass thing ever and I hate it!), his height, weight, how attractive he was, and that he thought I was “incredibly beautiful,” and someone he’d like to get to know. All fine and dandy, but where’s the panache? A five year old could have written this summary. What makes you, you, Mr. Electrician dude? Also, Vincey poo lied in this email stating he had just joined the online dating community. Well, he must have forgotten then that he emailed me less than 3 months ago stating he was sick of this online dating crap.

Anyway, I didn’t respond. Besides getting my kiwi on with a hot New Zealander, I also took salsa lessons in the city and got my Irish on as well. I hadn’t logged online for a number of days. And I happen to be in the “no-email if not interested” rotation. And, I’m over the boys that lie. So yesterday, I receive this little gem:

“so a really good man with ALOT to offer, matches everything u seek, takes time to write u a real sincere email to show u he is a good man, and u wont even take a chance to get to know me, so the only thing is it can be is I guess my pics werent good enough for you? I am not good looking enough for you to get a response, are we that shallow? your average looking, which is fine by me, but I am not shallow and base who u are on a pic posted online, oh well…your loss princess, get over yourself…”

It took everything in my power and my little brother, Casey, literally pulling my hand away from my keyboard to not write him back. Instead, I blocked his ass.

You can’t touch what you haven’t yet…

I myself have become a little disgusted at how much focus I’ve given to Porks lately, so today, I’m going to share with you a poem I received in an email the other day. The guy said he wrote it for me, and even if he didn’t, I don’t fucking care because, well, read below.

Had I told the sea
how beautiful your eyes are
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.

I eat this shit up, people! And the timing couldn’t have been better after last week.