Don’t do this on a first date.

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.

 

Hedonistic Me

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.

 

Thanks for the insults and the compliments.

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…

 

Thank you men who give a damn!

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.

 

Aha Shake Heartbreak

This morning I woke up feeling a tad sorry for myself. I hate Valentine’s Day; I am a hopeless romantic so I often yearn for those relationships or men who seem to know that their woman is to be cherished year round. Any guy who needs a stupid day on a calendar to remind them to stop being lazy is a complete schmuck in my book. Sorry, schmuckys. Well, not really. Get a goddamned grip and be more romantic. Sheesh. Don’t you know it’ll get your dick sucked more?

So today I’m having a total pity party, despite my best efforts at agreeing with myself to abhor Hallmark and become a hermit for 24 hours. I start my pity party by actually going to the gym, which is pretty awesome, and end up in the grocery store buying chicken, wild mushrooms, heavy cream, orzo and asparagus. If I’m gonna be all alone, I might as well eat good.

Which is where I receive the call from he who shall remain nameless, except maybe I’ll call him Porks. Porks and I make plans to cook dinner together, and play Rock Band. How effing exciting, but a night with a great friend is better than by myself on this day, at least.

A little back history on Porks: this guy has been in my life for 13 years. My first love, first fuck, first Mr. Big, etc. All through my divorce (which was two years ago), I carried the torch for this pathetic Porky. I tell him after I’m separated that he’s the one. I know it, I have known it forever, and can we please try it. Of course, he’s scared shitless. And he takes my heart which was served to him on a silver platter, and he throws it in the gutter.

Time passes. We become friends again.

I know, I’m lame. I just see the best in everyone. Sometimes even better than what actually exists. So for the past year and a half, we’re just friends. Not even no benefits. So come five o’clock, I have my grocery bags packed up and head down to Wilmington, DE to hang out with Porks.

Of course, I look bangin’, because he’s been sending me these horrid mixed messages and turned the flirting quotient into overdrive the last few times we hung out. It’s complicated, but I like it that way. I think that might be the only interesting thing about Porks. And ladies, why do we constantly find it much more dynamic to be with someone who is an emotionally stunted, bastard, crane his neck at other women, piggy like Porks?

I try to give it as little thought as possible as this is the most non-communicative, slow as a tortoise man I have ever met. I’m gonna have fun goddamit and that’s that. We cork open the wine and start to cook by 6:30. Let the flirting begin. It feels like a dance of seduction between a gazelle and a pubescent monkey. Clumsy, immature, tenacious on my part, more than reluctant to show any sign of vulnerability on his.

Somehow, we arrive at the dinner table, plates of yummy goodness in hand, and he starts to speak a glimmer of truth. He pseudo confesses, “I’m into you.” Translation: he wants to bang me but doesn’t know how to be a man and have balls and say yo I think you’re amazing let’s get this dating game on, girl!

Still, I nearly aspirate my mouthful of mushroom delicacy-ness and the tears rush under my eyelids like someone has a vice grip on my orbital nerves. I hold my own, and demand more from the conversation.

All in all, Porks manages to say less than three sentences, over and over, which to him is equivalent to opening up about his feelings towards me. Have you ever been in an English class where you are reading a book that was written in English but you just don’t get it at all. And you look around the classroom and start to feel completely ashamed that it appears you are the only one who doesn’t seem to know what the fuck the teacher is talking about. And you want to run to the bathroom to read the cliffs notes so just in case the teacher calls on you, you don’t sound like a bumbling idiot? Does anyone have the Porky the Pig cliffs notes? Anyone? If so, please effing share this shit with me.

Bastard is still making me do all the guess work. Regardless, I facilitate the conversation like a hospital mediator talking to elderly sisters fighting over their dead mother’s pearls. I don’t seem to be speaking the same language as ole Porks at this table, and I end up feeling quite vulnerable and completely lost in the conversation.

My attempts at gaining any insight by delicately weaving through this conversation are futile. I seem to be the only one talking and revealing anything. The conversation goes like this:

Kelly: So, what I’m hearing you say is that you would like to try dating me again?”

Porks: I just don’t want to hurt you again.

Kelly: What does that mean to you, exactly? You don’t want to hurt me so you want to just be friends, or you want to try and you’re going to take more ownership of your actions?

Porks: All I know is that I’m really attracted to you, you have great taste in music, and your dog doesn’t annoy me. (and this is what wins me over?!….utterly baffled and terrified of making myself vulnerable at this point, yet ready to take a shot at love like a world champion javelin thrower, I continue…)

Kelly: So you just want to fuck me, basically?

Porks: No, well..yes..but, it’s taken alot of restraint over these past few weeks to hang out with you and not do anything physical. I don’t want you to think that’s the only thing I’m about.

Kelly: What are you about?

Porks: I don’t know. I’m very confused.

Kelly: What’s so confusing? Do you like me or not?

Porks: I think so. I know that I feel really happy when I’m around you.

Kelly: I’m sorry, are you gonna keep taking a shit here, or actually do something about this little predicament you’re in?

Porks: I’m confused.

Surprisingly, it somehow becomes 4 o’clock in the morning, and I feel more lost than ever. We go to sleep. We wake up the next morning. I start crying again. And no, you judgmental fucks out there, I’m not emotionally unstable, but the way this guy broke my heart two years ago, I’m just freaking the fuck out a tad bit much. Deal. He has to leave for a bowling reunion. I go home. It’s awkward, and I have no idea what to think. Pay attention people: this man has just gone pokemon on my ass.

 

The Shortest Date

I started talking to Dr. Nick the week before New Year’s 2009. I was trying to figure out if I got a good vibe from him, and sometimes, this is impossible to do in email. Phone conversations plus my Macgyver skills usually lend to me being able to tell if I want to go on a date.

Blame the holidays, the weather, what have you, but Nick was a hard read. He seemed nice enough on the phone, and he was a doctor, like the real kind, and he worked at a big hospital near my home town. On the phone, he seemed interesting, and his family seemed far from perfect. Sick as it is, I am really wary about guys that say they’re looking for someone with a great family background and values. The family values are one thing, but we can’t help which family we’re born into.

Nick and I agreed to meet for coffee on New Year’s Day. Which was stupid planning on my part because I’d be training back from NYC and probably exhausted, but I figured I could make it work.

When I got to the coffee shop on Lancaster Ave, I applied my lipstick in the rear view mirror of my car. For whatever reason, I noticed the time as 7:01 p.m. There was no sign of Nick, so I went ahead and bought myself coffee. I was a little cranky that I had only gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before. Plus it was freezing out, and I just don’t do too well in the cold.

As soon as Nick walked in, I knew there was no physical attraction. This is completely subjective, but he was the kind of guy where the dork in him was not balanced out. He kind of twitched his eyes in a squinty fashion when he tried to smile, and he wouldn’t show his teeth. He was way shorter than the 5’7 he had advertised, and dressed in head to toe Old Navy with not a bit of personality. And this girl loves Old Navy, don’t get me wrong…but he was just so boring.

So Nick buys his own coffee then comes and sits down at our little table. I figure this date will be painless and in an hour’s time or so, I will be back in my flannel pj’s watching some kind of horrifically addicting reality television show.

The conversation goes like this:

Nick: So how was your day?

Kelly:Oh, it was great. I’m a little tired though from being out last night. Did you do anything fun for New Year’s?

Nick: No. I don’t do anything fun, ever. I’m a doctor. I had to get up to do patient rounds this morning. I was in bed last night by 9:30 p.m.

Kelly:Oh, that’s a shame. How were your rounds?

Nick: They were what they were. Do you like your job?

Kelly: I love my job. I get to meet new people every day, it’s always different and challenging, I do have some issues with one person at work, but that’s gonna happen everywhere.

Nick: How do you know it’s not you with the issue?

Kelly: (completely taken aback at this point, like, did fuckface really just say that!?) Um, well, I trust my instincts. And some other people have complained at work about the same person.

Nick: Well if it was really that bad, you wouldn’t be working there.

Kelly: Look, there are other reasons I like to work there, but yes, I have kept some options open. So what do you like about your job? Tell me about your patients.

Nick: I like that I am presented with problems and I know how to fix them before the person even opens their mouth to speak.

Kelly: But isn’t that the fun part, interacting with the patients? That’s my favorite.

Nick: My job would be better if they would just keep their mouths shut. I’ve found the ‘cold-hearted’ approach works best for me.

Kelly: Really? I pride myself on the emotional connections I am able to make with others. I love to feel what I feel.

Nick: Not me. I like to just do my job.

Kelly: But isn’t part of your job to connect with the patients so you can be a better doctor?

Nick: No. Are you really proud of the fact that you are emotional?

Kelly: Absolutely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

By this point, the conversation was like pulling teeth. It was evident to me that this guy had no bedside manner, with his patients, and wouldn’t even be getting anywhere near close to my bedside. I had also been on so many dates in the past where I sat there, either bored, or insulted, and regretted it later. All I could picture was my couch, my flannels, and my dog waiting at home for me. I figured now would be as good a time as any to practice out a little inner bitchittude and stick up for myself.

Kelly: You know what? I feel like you’re not really listening to some of the things I am saying. I have talked about a few things, and you seem to criticize me or want to offer me a solution.

Nick: Well, I’m sorry if you can’t take a guy being sensitive to you.

Kelly: You call that sensitivity? If that’s the case, I would like to let you know that I’m not having much fun on this date with you. I wish you the best in life, and I’d like to let you know I’m going to go home now.

The adrenaline surged as I walked back to my car, but I felt the huuugest sense of relief that I didn’t let myself put up with any of that shit. A date is what you make of it, people. If you’re not having any fun, get the eff out of there.
Just as I turned my ignition, the clock in my car read 7:18 p.m. A seventeen minute date!

If I can figure that out in seventeen minutes, maybe my friend is right. I should give speed dating a shot!

 

These Boots Were Made for Walkin’

Andy was an attorney in Philly that I started talking to on match.com. At first, he didn’t have his pics posted, and I called him out on it, stating that I didn’t date guys without pics.

First off, I’ve found out first hand it usually means one of three things. a) they’re married. b) they’re dating someone and they want a little side action. or c) they’re hideous and can’t otherwise get a date. But in Andy’s case, it was none of the above. Andy would require a blue book essay explanation exploring the many reasons he chose to conceal his identity. The most interesting of which was the fact that he has one of the most peculiar fetishes I have ever heard of.

My conversations with Andy pre-date were normal enough. He was one of those, let’s cut to the chase and just meet kind of guys who sees enough of what he’s looking for in a picture and an online profile to know if he wants to meet in person. At the time, I saw nothing wrong with that.  And he emailed me a pic which got my juices flowin. Andy wasn’t bad looking. In fact, he was an uuber hottie.  He was mid thirties, Irish-Italian looking, jet black hair with ice blue eyes.

I agreed to meet him at the Continental Midtown. It was a beautiful summer evening, one that just sets up the night for the kind of sweet romance that can only be experienced after having great first date chemistry.  Which would have been fucking awesome to have with Andy.

But what happened was awesomer on the kind of level you can only experience from a mild acid trip.

I show up for the date in a strapless orange dress I had picked up this summer in Prague. I felt great, and Andy was quick to compliment me. He made the perfect amount of eye contact, and the sexual attraction was definitely there. The conversation over drinks covered a range of topics from growing up, traveling, music, culture, gardening, and pedicures. This last topic, Andy cleverly weaved into the conversation by first admiring my shoes, a pair of open toed gold strappy heels.

Andy: Do you get pedicures? You have beautiful feet.

Oh fuck me. Is this really happening? My very own date with a foot fetishist. Lemme have a little fun with this one. Like a kid in a candy store…or in this case, like Andy in a podiatrist’s office, I coyly accept said compliment and cross my legs, displaying my left foot like a cat in heat.

Andy can’t take his eyes off of my foot, and continues to ask me questions about how the bottoms of my foot feel.

Kelly: Don’t you think it’s a little odd for you to be asking me about my feet on our first date?

Andy: No, I just like feet. There’s nothing wrong with that. And yours are beautiful.

Kelly: Ok, well let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your job… And I zone out from Andy’s description of his boring ass lawyer job and start fantasizing about what on earth he could want me to do with my feet. Maybe he wants to just suck my toes, or paint them? Or just have me wear weird shoes while we fuck. I remember hearing once that some guys like it when a girl wears running shoes and nothing else. Maybe he likes the smell, or better yet, wants me to jerk him off with my feet. Hmm..

Andy: So, tell me more about your feet. (how the fuck are you supposed to respond to that?)

Kelly: Andy, maybe we could just cut to the chase. I think it’s pretty obvious you have a foot fetish. Don’t you think it would be a better idea to wait a little bit to bring it up?

Andy: Well, I don’t want there to be any surprises. I want to be up front about who I am.

Kelly: Ok. I can understand that. But let’s put the sex stuff on hold and get to know eachother better.

After a few smarty pants cocktails, we proceed down the street to a restaurant on Rittenhouse Square. Two bottles of wine later, and Andy decides he’s gonna go for the kill.

I feel his hands under the dinner table wrap around my feet like a python on an innocent woodchuck.

Andy: Your legs look really strong. Must be from all the running you do.

Kelly: Uhm. Yea, my legs are strong.

He pulls my foot into his lap, and as he cradles it in his hands, he looks me deep in the eyes and says: “I want this beautiful foot to break every bone in my face.” The wine spray action happening from my mouth is like a fuckin geyser at Yellowstone. I seriously do a double take at the people around the restaurant expecting my friends to jump out and admit they have punked my ass. But Andy’s dead serious.

Kelly: Can you elaborate on that? What do you mean, break your face?

Andy: I would hug you if you broke my nose and made me bleed all over the carpet.

Kelly: But I don’t like hurting people. I like helping people. I don’t know that I could hurt you. Why don’t you go to a dungeon and hire someone to do this for you?

Andy: Because I want an emotional connection with someone. Translation: I want to train a bitch how to do it the way I like it and pretend that I’m submitting.

Andy: Would you just walk on me then?

Kelly: Like, walk on your face?

Andy: You’d do that?

Kelly: Hell, Andy, I’ll fuckin kick your face in but you’re a goddamned lawyer how do I know you won’t sue me.

Andy: I’ll hug you!

Kelly: Will you sign a waiver?

And this was all he needed to hear. Back at his place, Andy lays down on the carpet, fully clothed, and looks at me with the anticipation of a meth addict about to get a suppository. I keep all of my clothes on too, and step first onto Andy’s chest. After a little hesitation and disbelief that Andy’s face could handle my weight, I stand on his face.

He sweetly encourages me to kick him, which I start doing. I smash on his face like I’m a wine maker apprentice and he’s got grape sized chicken pox covering his skin. Andy’s pitchin a tent with a boner the size I haven’t seen in a good six months. I can’t believe he’s actually into this. The psychologist in me begins to seriously contemplate Andy’s childhood and potential mommy issues. I quickly come to realize I can’t break anything. I just don’t have it in me.  And I can’t take on a project.  So I dismount despite my best efforts, and wish Andy the best of luck.

 

Charmer

However naively, I was still believing everything that I saw on match.com. So, while perusing the meat market online, I fell in love with a British guy, pretty much just because he had a british accent. After talking for about three weeks on email and over the phone, me and my new mate agreed to meet.

I was supposed to meet Mr. Accenty Pants at the Rose Tattoo Café which is a really romantic awesome place, and boy did I build up this date in my mind. Cuz, you know, he had a British accent, this is gonna be awesome, I’m already so in love, he has an awesome job, I’m totally enamored.

I wore a black pencil skirt, heels, and I met Bloke dude. Who turned out to be shorter than me, and had some very effeminate characteristics. He was a wrist flipper, and he also walked with knobby knees, like with his knees together. He also had the worst bad breath I had ever experienced in my life.

So I decided Blokey and me would be just friends and share cool stories on our now platonic date. We took a seat at the bar and waited for our table. At the bar, he ordered my drink for me. This I’m not used to, as a newly divorced woman, expressing my feminist side, I’m ordering for myself. So I say:

What’s up with you ordering my drink for me?

He just put up his hand. So I figured, whatev. Bloke better step off.

Then, as if we are shooting a scene in a suicidal ideation documentary, he pulls out a green leather Dolce & Gabbana gift bag from his jacket pocket. Who in all names holy brings a gift on a first date? Rule of thumb: if this ever happens to me again, I’m just getting up out of my seat and yelling at the top of my lungs “POSER.”

The awkward factor just rose to 98. Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for Blokey, my momma raised me with a tinge of manners. So I take my green leather, and open it up, thinking, fuck me jesus how do I get myself into these things.

It was a beautiful sterling silver choker. He went to put it on me and he said:

My darling this will be your first collar.

I suddenly turn into Bambi as my eyes pop so far out of my skull it appears I have a brain injury. Somehow I manage to spit out:

What about me made you think that I would wear a collar?

Blokes had no answer. He just continued to fasten it around my neck, and I wondered if there would be a leash coming next.

By this point, I realize most of you are yelling at your computer screens like you’re watching a horror movie and I progress to run away from the killer by going straight up the stairs. Oddly enough, as we proceeded to dinner, I did walk upstairs in the restaurant. But I knew that any sort of connection was a moot point and instead what I would be getting was a fantabulous story.

I don’t know if anyone’s ever been to Rose Tattoo, but upstairs it is so romantic, with hanging plants everywhere and the perfect amount of sexy lighting.

Surprisingly, Blokes again ordered for me, not letting me speak at all to the waitress. Meanwhile I’m trying to motion to the dumb bitch somehow “help me.” Somehow flailing my arms at her every time Blokes turns his head isn’t doing the trick.

So I focus my attention back to my whack job of a date. I ask him, not really sure if I want to hear the answer:

“What happened ot you in your childhood?”

Blokes: I ran away from home after mumsie started fucking my uncle. I don’t know about my childhood but I do know I want a full time submissive. I used to be a dominatrix/dungeon master in Britain for thirteen years. I want to cane you, and leave you to bleed in a dog cage while I’m at work for the day. It gets me off to leave marks that last at least six months.

As if that’s not enough, Blokes then scribbles the name of his favorite caning porn on a napkin and slides it across the table.

Now, this girl knows when she’s in over her head. And it was definitely time for me to leave. As I get up to “go to the bathroom,” I have to scoot by Blokes.

And he must have balls of steel, because he pulls me in for a kiss by my hips. I very much pull away. Blokes becomes so upset by my reaction that he pushes my head down with one hand, and gives me a public spanking with the other, in the middle of the restaurant, bringing tears to my eyes.

It was a real, hardcore spank.

Out the effin door I ran, not even stopping to see if I had a follower.

And that Sunday, at dinner with my family, I retold the story and gave the collar to my mom.

(This story also available in video form…check out the link to viddler on the right hand column of the home page!)

 

Ain’t No Easy Way Out

This winter proved to be much more difficult than I would have thought.  While it’s already my second Christmas as a divorcee, and while surrounded by the people I love, my itch to escape it all is strong. This could probably explain why on earth I even agreed to meet up with Chase, or Blurry Picture Guy.

It was one of those desperate, glances at each other’s pictures online, lonely attempts to fill the void that is amplified by the holidays. Chase looked normal enough, so what if I really couldn’t make out his facial features? He had clothes on. Good enough get me out of this goddamned house. Pathetic, I know, but let’s not judge.

Chase tells me to park my car in University City and he will find me. Sketch. Whatever, he says he is a Penn student, how bad could he be? Maybe he’s just an uuber gentleman. This also affords me the opportunity to drive around the block a few times, craning my neck at every 20-30ish looking guy that’s walking the streets that particular Thursday night in U. City. When I barely miss smashing into the bumper of the white Volvo in front of me, I decide to just park my effing car and take it from there.

So I park where Chase recommended, and shoot him a text. He happens to be on the same corner, he says. My left eyebrow raises as I do not recall seeing anyone that could possibly look like him cruising the streets. I look to the right. To the left. Oh shit. Not that guy walking towards me in the white Adidas and backwards white baseball cap? Should I drive away? I could do it, but oh no, he’s opening the door.

“You must be Kelly? Although you don’t look like your picture.”

I don’t look like my picture!?! What the eff is this guy smoking? The picture I saw was a guy in a preppy yellow collared shirt and the enigma standing in front of me now represents a complete cross section of South Philly guys all compiled into one, dark haired, tan, white clothing and accessory wearing, mess.

“Well, we can’t all be so fortunate, Chase, can we?” Little gap tooth, short as shit liar. Who was that, his cousin he sent me a picture of? What am I doing on this date? I could be eating Carlino’s leftovers and watching more Intervention right about now. Maybe I need an intervention.

“Do you want to go to this tea house down the street? They have really good bubble tea.” Fuck me, I hate bubble tea. I can understand that some people get off on having large gummy balls in their mouths, but I’ll take the real thing or a grape any day. Stupid effing bubble tea.

“Sure.”

So the whole walk there, which is about four blocks, Chase is trying to talk to me, and I’m just acting like a disgruntled school janitor told to clean up a 4th grader’s puke. Now don’t you all go feeling sorry for Chase. Boy was being a total jackass with his comments. Saying shit like, “well, I like tall girls, but usually only ones that are thinner than you.”

Why I didn’t just walk away right there is beyond me. But everything looks different in retrospect. So as we roll into the tea house in U. City, which is near one of my favorite restaurants, the White Dog Café, I’m planning my escape. I just have to get away from this guy for one second and then I could get out of there. Actually having a direct conversation with him at this point was out of the question. I couldn’t handle the confrontation or the possible fight that would ensue.

So, like any passive aggressive woman would do, I tell Chase I have to go to the bathroom. I figure, well, there’s got to be a back door or something, some other way out. Aren’t restaurants required to have more than one exit? I ask one of the staff to point me in the direction of freedom, I mean, the bathroom.

Which is in the basement.

Fuck.

Me.

Well, I guess the basement is better than being up here with Chase. And as I’m descending the stairs, the brilliant thought enters my mind that most basements in the city have escape hatches for deliveries.

I grab a waitress, who is rushing past me with a fruit tray. “You have to help me get out of here. I’m on one of the worst dates in my life. I’m divorced (I always throw that in there to get the empathy I need), and I can’t face this guy any more. Is there any exit down here? I just need to get the hell out of here.”

And, acting like she were Florence fucking Nightingale, this awesome waitress pauses, then, as if no further explanation should be necessary, says “well, I’m not supposed to do this, but in your case, you can take the ladder in the back that goes up to the street. Follow me.”

I see angel wings on this woman as I follow her into the back. She points to the escape ladder and hatch, which is blocked by boxes of cabbage heads and tea packaging. I express my gratitude, then begin my summit. A cabbage head falls to the ground as I awkwardly stumble towards the ladder, and I give one swift look back towards the waitress as I open the hatch.

All sense of normalcy that had been going on outside suddenly stops as I become the highlight of many people’s evening. I scramble up onto the sidewalk, close the hatch, and straighten out my shirt.

Then, just to be as dramatic as possible, I look around like Chase might have been watching the whole thing and is going to hunt me down. No sign of Chase, but I waste no time getting back to my car. Safe in the driver’s seat, my phone starts beeping. A text from Chase. What kind of tea do I want?!

 

Pathological Orgasms

Dave was the first person I met from online dating after I had separated from my ex a few years ago.

When I first saw Dave’s profile on match, all I could really notice was his picture. He looked like a spitting image of Tom Cruise, and had piercing blue eyes. As I was new to the online world and recently status post divorce at the time, I overlooked some key indicators that Dave would be a dick. The first was his description of the kind of woman he wanted. As Dave was a simple man, he wanted one thing and one thing only: “no fat chicks.”

My profile at the time simply stated “looking for fun!” I would have done anything to get out of the friggin house and go on a date. Over 5’10? Check. Two legs? Check. Car? Check. Plus he’s hot? Oh we’re good to go.

So, Dave and I meet at Friendly’s for our first date, which is so incredibly dull I want to smash my face into my cookie dough cone head sundae. But, I’m really sexxed up at this point, and all I can concentrate on is Dickhead’s glasses and how hot he’d look if I was smashing his face into my twat.
Ahem.

Although it didn’t happen that night, it wasn’t long before we were boinging in the back of Dave’s volvo station wagon. Considering the fact that I had an apartment and I lived alone, I’m not sure why we effed in his car, but it was all just so perfectly unsatisfying.

Let me set the mood for ya’ll guys. Dave wants to have me over for dinner. He’s gonna cook for me. Sweet. Now mind you, I can whip up pretty much anything you want as long as it doesn’t involve making yeast rise.

So I roll in to Dave’s place and he’s got Stroehmann bagged bread, paper plates, and pasta sitting in a pot of cold water. I literally have to show him how to make pasta. We take our Ragu covered limp dick noodles and white bread n’ butta to the couch where Dave continues to impress me with his online gambling skills. Just wow.
He then suggests we go for a drive, as it’s summer and a nice evening, I agree. I decide to spice things up a bit and engage in a little road head. I realize at this point me and Dave have absolutely nothing in common, so I might as well do a little recon and see if he’d be fun to fuck. Well the road head leads to Dave pulling over and giving it to me like a 16 year old virgin. Not only does he cum in like 40 seconds, but the real kicker is when he says, as he’s cumming “I love you!” I literally smack his face.

Kelly: Dave, you’re such a dickwad, you don’t love me.
Dave: I know, but I just can’t help it. I say it every time I cum.
Kelly: Are you fucking kidding me. If you ever say that to me again when you cum we aren’t having sex anymore.
Dave: Ok, I’ll try.
Kelly: Well don’t let it happen again! Do you say it when you masturbate?
Dave: Yea. I just can’t help it.

On our next get together, Dave heeds my advice and deletes “I love you” from his cumcabulary. However, he takes it upon himself to make an even worse substitution.

This time, as Dave’s about to cream all over my backside bullseye, he shouts out “I want to impregnate you!”

I turn around, wrestle him down to the ground, and tell him it’s effin over.