Alright folks, inspired today to dust off the ole typewriter, crack my knuckles, throw back a few hot toddies, and after a good pee in the shower, write my response to this email I received on a popular internet dating site:

“Whatelse….hmmmm.  I just basically a good guy that people tend to like.  I’m very fortunate in that sense.  My coworkers miss me when I am not there and when I return they are excited to see me.
So how come you are so funny?  I worked in stand up for about 5 years.  I can count on one hand the amount of women who made me laugh.
Sorry for the delayed response. I didn’t want to send you quick email without much thought.
M(%&$#”

M(%&$#,
Let me begin first by saying thank you (and stand up to give you a one woman clap, clap, clap).  How does one of the most popular, most funny men in the work force squeeze any time into his day to write a girl like me such a titillating message?  I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read that your coworkers let you alone for one second to spend time finding true love.  My eyes bugged out and I pulled my hood up over my head in sweet anticipation of what you might type next!
How are you even still single???  Your arms must be exhausted by constantly swatting us girls away from your large head.  Here, let me get you a glass of tepid water.
It’s also quite refreshing to hear that the Friendship Only Squad is fiercely patrolling the city of Philadelphia and putting anyone who is mean or not nice on a duck boat and shipping them to Camden.  How dare anyone not like you!
I really could not possibly have any idea where to begin in answering your question regarding my sense of humor.  As always, because I have the intelligence equal to that of a snapping turtle, I consulted four random men on the street.  They came to the consensus that I’m actually not funny at all, but all of them laughed in unison whenever I opened my mouth.  They later confessed that they were simply trying to appear agreeable in hopes of seeing my huge rack.
It’s also quite exhilarating to hear about your unique hundred-fingered hand.  How difficult it must be to walk around with an appendage of such amplitude!  If you were my man (although there is no hope you’d choose a girl like me), I would give you a cocoa butter manicure every single day.  Then I would help you stick your hand in a great big fist and stick it up your tight arrogant asshole. 

You are about to witness a rare thing here at SSL…a post about me fucking up and embarrassing MYSELF royally.  Usually I like to partake in a mono-banter about the little sycophants I call my dates.  However, I figure it’s been way too many months since my last post, and what better way to have a comeback than a self-deprecating walk down memory lane.

Picture me, January 2010.  I get lonely in the winter and tend to hole up in my dwelling unit with a few good books, too much hot chocolate, and my trusty steed (dog) flopping around in my duvet cover like it’s a pile of snow.  My skin gets pale and dry, my hair gets provoked by the chilled electricity in the air, and I hate being cold so I wear way too many layers.  None of these things are particularly good for a first date.  But I was in a mood one certain Monday after a bad day at work, and Tim had been pestering me about finally meeting up.  We had been chatting back and forth, sending the obligatory one to two texts per day to show mutual interest, and finally we had a night where we were both free.

I’ll set the stage for you on this particular Monday evening.  I was still living outside the city at the time, a good hour’s drive outside the city.  And because of my odd winter body image, I decided to go all out for this date.  I kind of felt like there wouldn’t exactly be chemistry on this date, but wanted to test my intuition anyway.  If I looked like a fool and he turned out to be a douchebag, well then not much lost.  And if he was cool and someone I wanted to get to know better, well then he would be able to handle my version of hot to trot.  So, I figured, what better way to debut my new weave than on a first date with someone I’ve never met before, who really has no idea what I look like besides a few pictures where I have short blonde hair.  I purchased this weave from the Jessica Simpson “Hair Do” line, which, by the way, I highly recommend.  It’s a bit heavy and I wouldn’t wear the full hair piece in the summertime.

For anyone out there who doesn’t know what in the fuck I’m talking about, this weave I bought was 18 inches long, and I clip it in just under the crown of my head.  Some of my own hair covers the clips and my bangs just do their own thing.  I can tell you that to the naked eye, it looks somewhat synthetic (you CAN buy human hair if you’d like to part with $300, however I only wanted to part with $49.99)  But in a dark bar, after a few beers, well…I might be able to get away with it.

So I clip in my weave, put on an odd hue of eyeshadow (I believe it was called Shocking Sapphire), some skinny jeans, boots, a shirt, a cardigan, a scarf, a hat, and what I like to call my black sleeping bag coat because it looks like a black sleeping bag.  I’d like to think that at that particular time I thought I looked good, but in reminiscing about the evening, I realize I must have appeared a tad unhinged to some of the common folk I passed on the street.

I park my car about seven blocks away, and walk myself from 12th and Locust over to Good Dog Bar, a place which my date picked.  Now Tim was your average looking fellow, and thank god it was dark in the bar because I was starting to have mini panic attacks about what my head looked like from the back.  I envisioned myself having to get up and walk to the bathroom backwards so Tim never caught a glance of it.  I sat extremely erect on my barstool and didn’t move my neck, but rather, the entire upper half of my body when I went to turn in a particular direction.  I knew right away, basically because Tim’s social cues and body language conveyed it to me, that there was no chemistry on this date.  No modicum of sexual attraction existed betwixt us, which I was simultaneously disappointed and relieved about.

Because ever the eternal optimist, I had also envisioned an evening of debaucherous lewdity (I made that word up) where Tim threw me around on his bed, pressed me up against random walls in his house, bent me over his couch, dipped my head in his fishtank in the throes of passion, and as he went to grab my hair to pull my head back up and jackhammer fuck me, my weave came out in his hand.  Good thing there was no chance of that happening.

So Tim and I decide to put ourselves through the torture of getting to know you questions and have a few beers.  After about an hour, I asked if he would walk with me to feed my meter, and perhaps go to a different venue since my car was across Broad.  At this request, Asshole Tim made his presence known.  He remarked that it was a big inconvenience for him to have to walk and this was his favorite bar and whiney whiney whiney…

As soon as we fed the meter, Tim went in the first bar he saw.  I wish I could tell you the name but I was a few beers in and not feeling particularly sentimental about remembering each particular detail of this date.  We went to the back bar, which was completely empty, and before we even sat down, Tim announced to the bartender that he was very happy she wasn’t wearing an engagement or wedding ring because now he’d have someone to flirt with.  And this is precisely the moment where I started what I fondly recall as getting shitfaced into oblivion.  After my fourth vodka grapefruit, and Tim and the bartender exchanging numbers, and Tim telling me how much better than me he was, and then threatening to sue me if I stole any of the ideas we discussed on this date,  we returned to my car.  I got in the driver’s seat, with no intention of driving anywhere, and Tim asked for a ride home.

I couldn’t stop laughing at this point at the oddity of the evening, how in god’s name I got myself into this situation, the fact that my weave hadn’t yet fallen out, and that Tim was truly expecting me to be able to drive.

He asked me “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, it’s just that I can’t drive anywhere.  I’m  drrrrrrrunnnk off my arsssssse!”

“Well, can I drive myself home in your car?”

(Tim and Kelly exchange positions in the car, so Tim is now in driver’s seat.  No words are spoken on the 10 block drive to Graduate Hospital where Tim lives.  Tim parks the car.)

“Well, Kelly, what are you gonna do now?”

“I’m gonna sit in my car until I sober up (giggling).”

“Ugh…I can’t let you sleep in your car.  You can sleep on my couch.”

“Ok sounds good.”

So Tim did have an ounce of gentleman in him after all.  I think it was really that he didn’t want to end up feeling guilty the next morning if he discovered that I had been kidnapped or held up or gone frolicking with some street cats.  So we went inside, he grabbed his laptop, and began to go upstairs.  I looked around, saw a comfortable looking couch, and with my weave and sleeping bag coat still on, fell backwards and shut my eyes.

“Tiiiiiiimmmmmm…..I know your secretttt!  You’re gonna jerk off with that laptop hahahahaa cuz you know I’m not gonna put outttt.”

And suddenly, it’s 5:14 a.m.  I am so desperate to pee that I almost can’t get off the couch my stomach is so swollen.  I decide that I need to be completely stealth with getting upstairs to the only bathroom in the house (which I discovered after stealthily tiptoeing around the downstairs unable to find a toilet).  Tim’s dog came to sniff me, and I whispered to him “c’mon little doggie, don’t give away me.  I’m just tryin to take a leak, little fella.”  He didn’t give me away, and I tiptoed back downstairs.  Knowing I was finally sober enough to drive, I reached into my jacket pocket and almost shit myself in excitement when I felt my car key IN MY POCKET!  No waking up Tim, I was gonna get out of there just fine.  Except for one thing.  I had no idea where Tim parked my car.

The only chance I had was to wander around South Philly pressing my car alarm button in hopes that if I got within a certain radius, it would call out to me and we would soon be reunited.  And after 44 minutes of aimless walking, me and my little car were together again.  I had left Tim’s door unlocked just in case my ingenious plan didn’t work out so well, so I quickly memorized where my car was parked, and walked back to Tim’s house to lock his front door.  I then walked all the way back to my car, got in, and the dork in me was actually screaming “yipeeeeeee” out loud as if I had gotten away with something spectacular.

The Continental Midtown seems to be one of those places where the oddities of the male population congregate to prey on women.   Despite its pretty façade, it’s a cesspool of sulfur emanating slugs with truly idiotic methods of attracting women.  It was, after all, the location where I would learn to hone my kick-a-lawyer-in-the-face-make-a-pretty-boner savvy.

Now this wasn’t one of those dates that shot a caution antenna up through my brain right away.  In fact, this was an instance where despite how things were progressing towards weird like a sorority girl in heat on the prowl; I continued to question my sanity in the situation.  Maybe I was being too hard on this guy?  Perhaps you can be the judge.  I was, truth be told, knee deep in Smarty Pants martinis.

So, the story begins with Reggie, a pharmaceutical sales rep living in Exton, PA.  If you haven’t traveled to Exton, PA, 1) don’t waste your time, and 2) doesn’t anyone else wonder where this mysterious “town” exists?  The only thing there is a highway crossroads and a mall.  And now, as the years have flown by and yuppies have flocked to this quaint suburbanite placeless space, there of course exists an Applebees, a Bed Bath and Beyond, a Target, an Old Navy, etc.  Anyway, Reggie was about as placeless as Exton, with a vacuous mind included.

We met when I was living in Ardmore, he took the train in to meet me on the way to the city.  He told me the reason he didn’t look like his pictures was because he’d recently been diagnosed with some sort of horrible disease that doesn’t have a cure but rather is reduced to chronic once one with said condition limits their intake of certain illness provoking substances.  In short, he suffered from a peanut allergy or some such something that had gone awry in Reggie and caused him to lose upwards of 45 lbs.  So, he essentially showed up looking rather gaunt and gangly.  Boo Reggie!

Nonetheless, he seemed like a nice enough sort of bloke and we rode the train exchanging the common pleasantries that I have grown to abhor exchanging especially now with blokes like Reggie.  How did he like his job, how he shat out 45 lbs. of weight over the last four months, how he loved living in Townless Town, how I ate zucchini for lunch and would rather be fucking my twat with said zucchini right now rather than training to the continental with twiggy Reggie.  Somehow, we got to the fire pit at the Continental, I got the first Smarty Pants into my system, and the date went from lukewarm to sizzling in a matter of minutes.

Actually, that didn’t happen at all.  What did happen was that Reggie pulled a carefully folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket, and looked at me as seductively as a 14 year old, braces clad bar mitzvah attending chump jerking off into his eyeglasses case lined with tissues and a sandwich baggie.  The paper was a printout of a list that Reggie had compiled from various websites offering advice on how to learn more about your companion on a first date.

And, as lame as he was, after three Smarty Pants and twenty four get-to-know-you questions, Reggie started to grow on me.  He seemed to have a genuine interest in me and at least put in some effort into helping me feel comfortable with him.  This is precisely why I decided to give him the blowjob of his life after taking him back to my apartment.

Reggie seemed pretty into it at the time.  And despite discovering him to be thinner naked than he appeared in clothing, I went to town on his dick.  A funny thing occurred as Reggie got close to orgasm.  At first I wasn’t sure if there was some sort of animal stuck in my radiator, but as I focused longer on the noise I realized that it was coming from Reggie.  As per my usual policy, I refused to stop mid blow, but thank god it didn’t take more than one more dick dive down my throat.  As Reggie built up to and came, he squeaked like a dying animal on the side of the road.  (To do it justice, read this last paragraph while listening to the following sound bite courtesy of this squeaky ferret: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_rNc6pAbyI).  It went on for a good 54 seconds because I started to count in order to focus my attention away from laughing so hard I would eternally bruise Reggie’s ego.

I didn’t know what to do.  What does one do when an otherwise normal man starts squeaking like a dog toy?  I looked for any sign that this wasn’t standard operating procedure for a Reggie-gasm, but he looked as content as could be after he finished, and fell asleep by the time I returned from the bathroom.  Twiggy Reggie was lucky Reggie that night, for if he had encountered me one week later, I would have been armed with my digital recorder and made him squeak into my microphone for all to hear.

Continuing with the theme of the last two posts, about the negativity I’ve been encountering in the dating world, I would like to share with you some of my favorite first emails ever received by a few of the quality single men out there.  Married and monogamous ladies, give your man an extra hug and remember that being single isn’t always lollipops and orgasms and thong underwear and free beers.

“Hi: what to no more albout you?
i will not beat you or cheat on you if you gave me a chance
hope to hear from you”

“going to iron hill with my friends tonight, if you walk in i would be nice and normal to you”

“hi how are you?  would you like to correspond with me?”

“Hi, I’m J___, I was wondering if we could hook up tonight?”

“Hey there, I like your profile. So here’s a joke for you: What did the buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?
Make me one with everything:)  Thought you would enjoy that 🙂
” (for the record, I don’t get this joke, and by favorite above I meant least favorite.  I really hate jokes that give me a headache).

“wow.. you are so sexy.. eyes so seductive.. lips so kissable. i would love nothing more than to talk to you.. my names jay.. how are you?”

More to come!

I know it’s seriously been ages since I’ve made a post, but one thing that will come along with this holiday season is a fresh group of scintillating stories posted here for your viewing pleasure.  Let’s start out with this sweet email I received earlier this evening.  I’ll set the stage.

I originally got an introductory email on an online dating website from a gentleman we will call “Butt Head” two days ago, on Wednesday evening.  It was a pretty generic email saying that he liked my profile and my pictures.  I didn’t respond because Butt Head looked pretty rough around the edges and like he had been in one too many fights.  Also, in his email to me committed mortal sin #42 in profile writing/emailing: he simply restated his profile in his initial email.  Helloooooo originality.  If you can’t write a simple email creatively, what in god’s name are you going to do when confronted with my muff for the 516th night in a row?  I just can’t have my muff dating a guy like that.

Ok, so the stage being set…this evening I was baking cookies over at my mom’s house.  I was wearing my new Tom’s canvas shoes in ruby slipper red, a comfortable short sleeved black sweater turtleneck, and some really comfy jeans I got from Gap a few years ago that I have since realized are so out of fashion I only wear them when I’m going to my mom’s.  We were making chocolate chip cookies, brownies, snickerdoodles, lemon bars, and peanut butter kiss cookies.  All very delicious, with a little Kenny G on the oboe playing sweet soft holiday music, presents under the tree and two ovens going at once!  My brother enters the room and we go hang out for a bit, where I decide to check my email.  Here’s what I got from Butt Head:

“hey thanks for taking time to write back or even click the no thanks button (which would take about 5 secs of your life) after I spent 10 mins to write a sincere genuine email to you, guess I wasnt hot enough in my pics for you to to be a decent human and be atleast polite, match.com where average looking woman think they are supermodels because a bunch of shirtless gelled up dbags looking for more notches on their bedpost email them, and a good man like me who has a ton too offer but who looks like average joe in his photos(photos not real life) doesnt stand a chance, gotta love it, your average at best based on your pics sweety but that didnt stop me because I am not shallow and superficial and I lvoed your profile, and I realize theres more to someone than a pic, plus considering most NORMAL people look better in person FYI getting alot of emails on a dating site doesnt make you heidi klum, when you realize that you may find the love of your life til then I am sure like most woman on match you will be on here for years since I am sure your too good for any one but a “hot” or rich man, tiger woods has a stable of models and I cant get an average looking woman like you to click no thanks lol what a world, Im sure if you knew I were a millionaire you would have responded haha….your loss trust me I would rock your world in every sense of the word, but good luck ;)”

I really have to take this opportunity to point out my favorite parts in his email…in the first few sentences, he suggests that I am somehow “impolite” yet turns himself into a complete hypocrite by writing this insult laden landfill material word buffet.  Second, I have counted 12 insults in this email, and perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I was including all of the implied insults, that in this dude’s twisted mind by not responding, I was calling him a poor, average, good for nothing, shallow, superficial, Tiger Woods wannabe.  Thirdly, I love the phrase “Tiger Woods has a stable of models.”  Well honey, if models are donkeys, what kind of animal house would you store me in for good keeping until you were ready to verbally abuse me a bit more?  Aaaaaahhhh.

And that’s when I decided to do something that is probably so immature I’ll look back on it in a few years and cringe.  But I’m sick and tired of getting these negative, physical-appearance-oriented, hate-mails.  I can’t take it when people attack others, verbally, or in any way for that matter.  So I wrote this back:

“BH,
Your email makes me so sad. I had been really looking forward to getting the opportunity to sit down for more than a few minutes to write you back because your profile made you seem so sweet, and your pics were adorable.
I didn’t have time yet to respond to your first email, which I must admit, made me smile, because my best friend in the entire world, got diagnosed with a malignant tumor of the corneal epithelium on Thursday of this week at Fox Chase Cancer Center. It was such a horrific diagnosis and I refused to leave her side. She underwent emergency surgery to remove her left eyeball this morning at 6:15 a.m. As if that weren’t enough, my mom’s good friend was killed in a sudden car accident in Baltimore and I have been supporting her as well.
The only time I had to sign on this site was to just check email as a means of distraction during this terrible ordeal. Please keep me, my mother, and my friend in your prayers. I’m sorry you were so upset by my delayed response.
Sincerely,
Saucy”


Why is it that when a guy wants to insult a woman, he immediately goes for the fat cracks?  In online dating, it’s true, you put yourself out there for whatever judgments might ensue.  But I just don’t understand why some people go “there” when their feelings are hurt.

After having a few emails exchanged back and forth with a dude who said he lived in Philly but who was allegedly “finishing up business in Finland”, I decided to cease communication when said dude attached two very unflattering pictures of himself to his final email.  His online dating profile had about five pictures, and in all of them he was wearing sunglasses and was shot from far away.  He had sort of a lean, hot ex-soccer player with obnoxious sticking up straight hair, but he seemed to have the personality to pull it off.  However, when he emailed me the two pictures the other day, I found myself completely appalled by what was on the screen.  His eyes were a weird yellow color and he had the same kind of old man drunkard looking nose that one of my uncles had when I was little.  Probably more about my own biological makeup than this man’s actual attractiveness, but nonetheless, I was no longer interested.

So, to be nice, I decided my best bet was to just not respond.  Why write him back and say, “you know what’s a joke?  Your face!”  So, I chose to just disappear into an interdimensional vortex of comunicationless existance with Shmavin (which rhymes with his real name), to save him his ego.

And here we are, a week later, a beautiful Sunday afternoon, me playing scramble and minding my own damn business catching up on Project Runway, and what floats like a little chicken feather into my inbox?  A note from Shmavin Uglyface Sunglasspants.

It read:

“So I finally just reread my email to you, the one which apparently resulted in me ceasing to exist in your world (albeit virtual), and it wasn’t even that bad!! It was matching your playfulness, which when coupled with the fact that it was a Friday night (for me), you still get put off? Weird, even for you..UNLESS, it was my pictures I attached! Well, that would be worse actually.  Anyway, bummer! You and your eclecticisms certainly had potential!  I would appreciate it if you could give me some feedback here, could you?  Thanks.  Later!”

And hahaha, silly little me thought, “hey well maybe this guy is thick skinned after all…he is in fact, asking for my feedback, he did hint at the possibility it could be those horrid pictures of himself that he stupidly attached, maybe I’ll nicely let him know I didn’t feel a spark after those pics turned my twat into the Sahara desert…attraction is subjective, and maybe he’ll just appreciate the honesty and that will be that.  Yeah, closure sounds good, ok I will let him know.”

So, I naively sent him this email:  To be completely honest, which is what you asked for, it was the pictures.  You looked completely different than what you seemed to portray in your other pictures online.  I had been picturing one thing, and now see another.  I don’t think you’re a bad looking guy, just not someone I’m interested in dating.  I’m really sorry, I know it’s probably hard to hear.

And of course, I get this reply:   Wow! Surprisingly shallow, and premature (I mean how often do pictures really do justice to anyone in real life?)  Your call though, and thanks for your honesty!  Bye

“Ok, ok, the guy’s got a point, and wow he handled that pretty well”, I start thinking to myself.  Until this little gem pops into my email like a zit on prom day:

Btw, just to reciprocate some ‘honest’ feedback to you, I’d drop the picture of you by the store…you look pretty big in that one, and it certainly doesn’t do justice to you being ‘athletic and toned’, nor does it match your physique in the other pics. Unless that’s how you look now.. in which case, thanks!  Ok now this time goodbye for real: )

And oh yes, he kept sending his feedback.  I’ll spare you.  It got ugly.  I sure wish you could block someone on gmail.  And I sure wish I could post his pic here on my blog.  Legally, I’m not sure that’s allowed.

Hello there guys and gals…long time no talk, I know, but I have been extremely busy this summer.  I haven’t been in a long term relationship, as some of you have feared, but rather, I have been doing alot of traveling, soul searching, dating, mating, and playing.  All good stuff, which will be shared here throughout the rest of the fall and winter months.  I’ve been entertaining a man I keep as a cuckold, telling men I’m dating about the blog, dating overly romantic men (did you even know they could exist?), seducing youngins in hostels, hipsters in Philly, professors in Wilmington, getting myself physically ill from sex acts, witnessing a real bed of nails, dating a few ass holes, a few boring dudes, testing my age limits, and learning more about my body than I even knew was possible.  So, may the hiatus end on a happy note, that I have more stories to share and I appreciate the comments and feedback!