Let’s Do It For Our Country…

I thought I could really like the next guy. He was in the military, super tall, Boston accent – all the fun things that make me happy. He had a French sounding last name, so we’ll call him Pierre.

The weirdest thing about him (at first) was that he called me his beautiful princess. As in “I want to take you out this weekend so everyone will be jealous of my beautiful princess.” It was a little weird, but everyone has their thing, you know?

He was a good kisser, was big and strong, and the uniform didn’t hurt. But the more we chatted the weirder things got. Like he didn’t have a Facebook he said, which I suppose COULD be true. Then he didn’t want to give me his number. He took mine, and he would email or message me, but no calling. I started to think he was probably married. So I asked. Of course he said he wasn’t. He claimed he was divorced and his ex-wife and kids lived in Boston.

So we hung out, and watched movies and had food and went to the park and made out and I could barely contain myself around him because I just KNEW he was going to be magnificent when we got to the sex part. And we were definitely getting to that part.

I wasn’t wrong. He was good, and proportional, which is always nice. I could deal with the beautiful princess nonsense, but I didn’t really want to be fucking someone’s husband. Sadly, because I am a horrible human being, when we were together I didn’t care one bit if he was married. He was denying it, after all, so I was blameless. I’m not a fucking wizard; I can’t look into a crystal ball and know that shit.

So we saw each other a couple of times and then he was MIA for like two weeks. Then he popped back up, said he had been training in the Midwest somewhere. As an active military dude that was certainly believable. So was vacation with his wife. Still didn’t care. It was hard to care when I was bent over or contorted in some way every time I saw him.

We did fun things together too, but I wasn’t kidding myself – and I doubt he was either – this was a sexual relationship, really. I mean, we had fun together, but it was always with the end goal being of getting through the niceties to get home and get it in.

During this time we would talk filthy to one another online. Which was all fine and good. Apparently my ex-husband liked it too, because I got a text one night saying that “as hot as it is for me to imagine some dude bending you over the couch, maybe you should change your password.J” That’s another tale for another time, but suffice to say my ex had added a program to my computer that allowed him to see everything I did and record my passwords to things, and he’d been getting off on the idea of me having rough sex with some random dude. Sexy. And I mean that in the most insincere way possible.

Eventually the random trysts began to get boring. The sex was still good, but I was waiting for some scorned New England housewife to show up and start beating my ass with hockey stick. I’ve read too many Dennis Lehane books to not have an idea of what his wife might want to do to my southern ass if she found out I was the one satisfying her hubby.

Thankfully, it was easy enough to end it. I stopped messaging him, and since he had never given me his number, I didn’t even have to text an excuse. He asked to go out a few more times and I put him off. Eventually he stopped and deleted his profile altogether. That should have been an indication that things were going south. I mean, why would a good-looking military dude with a big cock and aggressive tendencies have a problem finding another chick to hook up with? And if he could do that, then why take down your profile? Unless you got straight BUSTED, which I was thinking was probably the case.

And I was right, because he WAS fucking married. A little while after we stopped seeing one another I got a text from a person saying she was his wife. I was a whore and a home wrecker, apparently. My text back telling her that he said he was divorced didn’t seem to matter. I think she may have been out of state – that part may have been true – because otherwise she probably would have tortured my address out of him.

All of my instincts made me want to fuck with her – taunting her because I had been with her man because she must suck at taking care of him. But fear of a northern fishwife wielding a cleaver kept me proper. That time…

Chihuahuas and impotency

The next guy I became “involved” with we’ll call John. That just sounds like a perfect name for a guy who would behave like this clown.

He actually messaged me online, and I cannot tell you if I had ever noticed him before, but I’m guessing not. His pictures seemed recent – in that they weren’t pixelated all to hell and didn’t have people in the background wearing clothes that were popular on Beverly Hills, 90210but they were small – like cell phone sized pictures. That should have been my first hint.

I probably wouldn’t have been that intrigued if he weren’t amusing to me. He was funny; he threw some pop culture references my way, all of that worked to make me think we could get along rather well. He was going out of town a couple of days after we began talking, and asked me to send him a text here and there. He said he was going to participate in a 5K with friends. I was definitely interested. When he came back from his little mini-break, we scheduled a weeknight dinner.

I was actually looking forward to it, but as I waited outside for him to show up, this dude walked up and said hello. Not wanting to be rude, I acknowledged him, which is when I realized this was the boy I was waiting for, and that his pictures were a little fucking old. This was the first time something like that had happened to me, but he still seemed nice, and he made me laugh, even if he was about 50 lbs. (and I’m being gracious) heavier than he advertised, so instead of walking to my car and telling him to suck my balls, I sat down for dinner.

He was actually not bad at dinner. He laughed too loud, and he drank college boy beer, even though he was nearly 40, but I was enjoying myself. So afterwards, I asked him if he wanted to go to a park that was nearby.

The park is seriously one of my favorite places, but it also serves a purpose in that it’s near the police station, so any screams for help will be quickly heard. And I get to swing. So that’s a double plus for me. But since I went on a few dates with this guy, let’s hurry this part along. He asked to kiss me, gave me a very polite kiss in the park and went home shortly thereafter. We continued to chat and met for a lunch date in his town.

He again drank college beer, but I thought that maybe since he was a professor he was obligated in his contract to drink what the kids drank. He was dressed kinda sloppy too, but I let that slide. I mean it was an afternoon lunch of pho, so I didn’t need him in a suit and tie, just maybe in something that wasn’t wrinkled all to hell. He actually asked me to pay for my own lunch, which was some bullshit. Then we kissed at my car, and he went with the tongue. He seemed to be a good enough kisser.

So the next weekend, he came to me. We did dinner, watched a movie, made out a little bit on my bed. Then he stopped me and told me that he had something he needed to tell me. Shit – he was married. But no. For absolutely no reason whatsoever he decided to use that moment to tell me that he sometimes had “problems with impotency.” I actually thought he said intimacy, because that would have been a little less weird, but no. He explained that it was more of a performance anxiety thing, so I brushed it off because obviously I am a glutton for punishment, and I think I saw it as a bit of a challenge if we’re being totally honest.

So fourth date – the sex date – I was invited to spend the night at his place. His roommate made himself scarce, and he cooked for me, which was nice. Then made me do shots so I couldn’t run away. We watched a movie and then it was time for “bed.” I knew what bed meant, and if I didn’t when he said something about having a no pajama policy I would have caught on. It was fine, I was down.

He kept getting hard, and I noticed when I touched his tiny little junk, it would immediately start to dribble, like a retard eating soup. He would get on his knees and attempt to put on condoms that smelled like chocolate pudding. But he’d be on his knees for three seconds, then curse and throw the condom across the room, complain of a leg cramp, and lie down. Eventually he would start rubbing my nipple like a fucking worry bead and the whole process would start over. This happened three or four times – I actually lost count. Not to mention interest. I just wanted to go the fuck to sleep, so I turned on my side away from him, faced the wall, and drifted off. Eventually his continual grouping throughout the night didn’t even bother me; it had become the bodily equivalent of white noise.

Until about 3 or 4 a.m. At first I was confused about where I was and why everything was shaking. Then, as I came to I realized. He was humping my back. Like a goddamn Chihuahua. I was in shock, and he finished so quickly I didn’t have time to protest. Then he was going to go to sleep and leave me shoved against a wall with professor semen on my back. Hell fuck no. I had to tell him to go get me something to clean up with. Then, thoroughly disgusted and as un-turned on as I have ever been in my life, I attempted sleep once more as his meaty paws kept creeping ever closer.

You’d think that would be the end, but no. It happened again around 6 a.m., the insane back humping, after which I claimed I needed to go to work and tried to get away. But he wanted breakfast. Of course he was hungry, he’d came twice. He didn’t even buy my breakfast.

He tried to make plans with me again but I kept blowing him off. Then one day I get home from work on a Saturday and he’s sitting on my fucking front porch, drinking a 6-pack, saying he wanted to “surprise me” and that he had drank too much to drive home. I should have had him arrested, but I let him stay. He bought me a steak – as he should have – and then made the mistake of saying he had sobered up. Which meant his ass was heading back home that night. I think he took the hint after every text he sent me afterwards went unanswered. Thank God, cause I’m not above taking out a TPO on a dude.

Oh, and as a nice aside… The 5K he was participating in. He was required to bring beer and wear red panties. And he did. If only he had told me that sooner, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up an hour away from home with a crusty back.

I’m Not Your Sister Wife…

While it would be super easy to only talk about the dudes I’ve had sex with, I would hate for you to think I was some sort of tramp. The truth is, when I got divorced I had only been with three people in my life. Then I decided I would make like an Avril Lavigne song and scream “what the hell.”

But I didn’t sleep with all the boys I went on dates with. Even if they did want me to be part of their polyamorous marriage.

So this one dude we’ll call Kody, after the husband on “Sister Wives.” I realize that they aren’t polyamorous, but what the fuck ever. He has multiple chicks that he’s in a relationship with. Is it really that big of a difference? Also, I can’t remember his name. But I am sure it wasn’t Kody with a freaking K.

So we chat, we text – we don’t talk on the phone, because I just didn’t wanna. He never mentions a wife. We become Facebook friends and the pictures he posts are mainly of food he’s cooking and motorcycle rides in the mountains. He says he is 6-feet-tall. I understand this might not matter for some, but I’m a tall chick, and you must be at least 5’11 to ride this ride, preferably taller. Something seemed kinda iffy about him. Like I just wasn’t sure I would like him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it just wasn’t clicking. But I made like Avril, said what the hell, and set to meet up with him for a date at a BBQ joint on a Friday night.

So I met him and if he was 5’10 I’ll eat my shoe. I also hadn’t really thought much about the fact that he didn’t have any pictures with a toothy grin posted on any form of social media. I mean, maybe the guy has crooked teeth, or maybe he just is a closed-mouth smiler. Or maybe his teeth are really, really spaced apart and kinda brown like a fucking mongoloid. Yeah, maybe that’s why.

So the conversation was okay, the food was delicious, but during the conversation he said something about his wife. I choked on my beer a little and said, “Did you say your WIFE?” He explained that he did say that, but that I shouldn’t worry, she knew he was there with me and they were looking for a woman to join their relationship. Not just for some sexy time, but as his girlfriend, and hers too. Apparently they were tired of just bringing chicks into the bedroom for sex, they wanted a girlfriend because they wanted to practice a polyamorous lifestyle. And eventually, they wanted another wife for them both. Oh, well in that case, where do I sign up?

While my mouth hung open unattractively, he showed me pictures of his gross ginger wife who wore skirts that were too short and too tight for her ass to be squeezing into, and who was really hoping things went well on our date, because they wanted me to go on a date with the two of them the next day. Did I mention that date was for dinner at their place. Nice try, Mr. Slick.

I tried to be nice, and not say things like “what the fuck are you on about?” and “suck my balls, you freaky asshole.” My way of attempting niceness was by saying that I didn’t know that I could be in a relationship like that and that I would be scared his wife would get jealous. Because let’s face it, if I was a sister wife, I would obviously be the favorite. I mean, if his current wife was a hot bitch he wouldn’t be looking for another broad to join his clan. And being a smoking hot bitch myself, I know who’d run that hot mess of a family.

Despite my open-mouthed staring and my snurled nose scowls, Kody actually attempted a good night kiss. I was shocked he could reach my mouth with his, but him standing on his tippy toes (he didn’t really, but he nearly had to. Six-feet-tall my ass) there was no lip love for the polyamorous asshole. He got the cheek, then the deletion from the cell phone, the dating site and the Facebook.

If I wanted to be with a chick, I’d pick a hotter one than his wife. And, as “South Park” has so wisely warned us, gingers have no souls. I’m not fucking a chick with no soul. You have to have standards.   

The Weeping Dragon

After the first date with the weirdo with the giant balls, I decided to get online and look around. My friend T suggested I check out POF – Plenty of Fish for those of you not in the know.

After making a lovely profile I sat back and waited, but not for long.

There were pictures of penises, sure, and some awesome “hey gurl, how u doin, u so dam fine” and other misspelled nonsense flooding in. There was the guy who said one of my pictures made me look like the Bride of Chucky, and had even scared his dog. Assuming he was kidding, I called his dog lame. He blocked me. Guess he really liked his dog. But there were some potentials there as well.

I started off slow and just chatted online for a bit. The first night there was a guy who seemed pretty nice from Kennesaw. We chatted a bit, but he quickly moved into wanting sexy chat, which I wasn’t into. Then there was the guy who seemed nice, but felt he needed to tell me early on that he was only into anal and oral because he was small (only about three inches hard, according to him). Wonder if that typically works on chicks?

Occasionally I would give a guy my number, thinking that if he was a total creeper I could simply block him. Nine times out of 10 I wished I hadn’t done that. I never had to block anyone, but I’ve seen more pictures of dudes cumming in the last year than I ever thought possible.

But then I met a local dude. Let’s call him something feminine and delicate, like Blaine.

So Blaine and I talked online, then texted, and then talked on the phone. Natural progression. We set a date and met. He wore a necklace (like one of those thick cloth or braided rope ones) with a dragon medallion on it, but other than that he seemed nice. His wife of many years had cheated on him and he had divorced her. He was worried that he had never really been in love and that something was wrong with him, and he desperately wanted a relationship, according to him.

He drew me pictures of daisies (my favorite flower), and said things like “if only we’d met each other when we met our ex’s, think of how different our lives would be.” He was nice, maybe a little too nice, but I thought nice might be a good thing.

We did the first date, had some food and then went to the park. We chatted for a couple hours without any weird pauses. At one point some deer came out of the woods behind us, which was pretty awesome. Kind of like in that movie “Funny Farm,” where they try to sell their house by bribing the townsfolk to not act like assholes, and have them do things like let deer go to frolic when potential buyers come to their home.

The good night kiss was good enough. He said something corny – “I was wondering if your lips would be as soft as they look. And I was right, they are.” No shit, moron. I have gorgeous lips, of course I keep them moisturized.

After the abysmal first stab at dating, I even got back out of my car and ran to his window for one more good-night kiss. Surely this would be a good thing between us, right? Well I’m writing this, aren’t I, so take a guess how it turned out.

Second date I forgot where we went – I think for sushi, then we made out and he went home. Third date I went to his house for Chinese and “Avatar.” This was the big three – the sex date. We ate, watched the movie, made out a little and then he got up, took my hand and led me to the bedroom. As he’s lighting a fucking million little votives (I was beginning to wonder if he was going to fuck me or sacrifice me), he asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this. Most girls would get off on this brand of teen movie romance. Me, not so much.

We get down to business; he leaves on the dragon necklace, which was a little off-putting.  While nothing to write home about, at least his balls looked normal and his penis wasn’t some sort of little gherkin dangling between his thighs. I could work with this. And I did my best, but the foreplay was sorely lacking, and I just could never really get into it totally. And when he came he did this high-pitched “he, he, he – not like a laugh, like that sound several times.” I did not cum, but the thought of him being selfish was drowned out by the sight of him crying. Yep, you read that right. CRYING, immediately after getting off. A little awkward sitting naked on the sheets I am sure his ex-wife picked out, while he bawled his eyes out.

Seems Blaine was still a little hung up on the ex-wife who had those white-trash squinty eyes like trailer park dwellers and Taylor Swift. He felt that everywhere he looked he could see her and he couldn’t get over how she was mean and would make him go down on her to get her off (and not ever go down on him), then allow him to penetrate her for up to five minutes before telling him to fuck off, going into the bathroom for a soak, and sexting his friends.

But I thought that maybe he just needed a little time. Maybe this could work. So I taught him how to make fudge for a family gathering, I listened to his endless diatribes on Air Soft (which he loved), we played pool and I TRIED to get into him. I even came over Thanksgiving night because he said he was lonely and sat watching him play Xbox. But he was so damn depressed all the time, and I think it made him a pretty shitty lover. That and the “he, he, he” sound he made when he was about to cum. The only way I got off with him was by assisting him in the process.

I broke up with him on my birthday, after we’d had a near-brutally boring date for sushi. He cried – sobbed actually – complained about never having been in love and made random statements about how he didn’t want to live in a world where people could hurt each other this way.

I promised that he would find someone someday, and that I would be his friend. And I was for a while. He’s now in a relationship with a woman who wants to stay celibate until marriage. Weird, since she has a kid, but whatever. I think sexless might be the best way for him. Cause if he’d cried every single time we had sex I might have killed myself. As it is, he only cried the first time, so I guess that’s okay and not totally weird.

Who the fuck am I trying to kid? That’s totally weird. Good thing he found a girl that wants to go to church and save herself for marriage – I mean, she’s already got the kid, so why bother. Incidentally she is white-trash squinty too. I guess he must have a type. And that type would be non-hot white trash bitches who don’t mind their men weeping during sexy time. To each his own.

Were You In An Accident?

The first date after my divorce was a local guy who worked for a government agency. Not the FBI or CIA or anything like that – let’s not have me getting phone calls from the feds. But a local government agency. We were already friends on Facebook, and I struck up an innocent enough conversation. He seemed nice, and he told me he was single, so I decided to ask him out for coffee.

I was quite pleased with myself. First date and I initiated that shit and everything! So we meet for coffee and it’s fine. My girlfriend’s husband works with the guy – who we’ll call Jose (even though he was in no way Hispanic – I feel I should probably spice up his name for his sake) – and she kept telling me that the guys thought he stuffed his pants because he had such a huge bulge. Of course, once she had that in my head, my eyes immediately went there. Not that they wouldn’t have anyway because holy Hell. There was no way that was real. It was like a Coke can stuffed down his pants. Right then I knew my curiosity would get the better of me and I would HAVE to see what was (or wasn’t) in his pants. I felt I owed it to my girlfriend, her husband, and all of Jose’s co-workers. 

As we leave the coffee shop he says something slightly creepy… That I was the type of girl he could fall in love with. Ummm… Too soon, dude.

Even after that, I continued to chat with him on the phone and agreed to another date the coming weekend. So I invite him over for a movie and he’s supposed to bring pizza – which he does. Fast forward a few hours and we’re making out. I kind of notice he seems to have a small-ish tongue and baby hands, which freaks me out, but to be honest, I just wanted to see his junk.

It wasn’t his junk. It was his balls. Or more like his giant red ball. Yep, totally said that.

I was horrified, but I wanted to get the first post-sex encounter out of the way. He already had his pants off, and by the looks of him he wouldn’t last two minutes. As giant as his balls were, his junk was sadly lacking. But in the end I couldn’t do it. I went with the girl excuse of not being ready and not wanting to rush things – you know the one. 

Quickly thereafter I made him leave. You’d think this would be the end, but it’s not.

The next day I get a message on Facebook from an account that was created and then deleted after the message was sent, saying that I was a whore messing with a married man. Holy shitballs – really?!

He wasn’t married, and according to him when I questioned him – because OF COURSE I did – he had been in a relationship with a woman (whose picture I saw and who was so gross) that he met on Craigslist and lived with. He told her he was working overtime when he came and showed me his giant balls. She messaged me as well, telling me he had a hernia in his balls, which explained why they looked the way they did – like he’d been in some sort of an accident.

That became the easiest way to get rid of him – by feigning hurt at him not being honest with me. I do care about that in general, but with good ole’ Jose it was a great excuse. Instead of being angry at me or some normal response, he cried on the phone and told me that he thought he was falling in love with me, and had never felt this way about anyone before in his life. Even more reason to get rid of his ass posthaste. 

And to tell my girlfriend that it isn’t a big package he’s working with, it’s just a big package of red balls. A lessor person would have stopped dating there, but I pushed ahead and decided to do the online thing. But that’s another tale for another time.

 

My Milkshake Brings All The Crazies To The Yard…

I’ve often thought about doing this blog. After all, those who I share my horrible dating stories with often seem amused. And to tell the truth, the boys are all starting to run together as to who cried when, who sniffed my hair, etc. So this is like a baby book of my dating life, which started nearly two years ago.

Well, it started many years before that, but after a divorce it was time to get back on that dating wagon. I started small – no pun intended – and stayed local. Then I moved on to the wacky world of online dating.

Though I’ll start out with the first date, and keep them up to date from there, I will have to go back some before I move forward. Trust me; you’ll want to keep reading. Everyone needs a little comic relief in their life, right?

I’ll also be honest. You might think I’m a whore sometimes, and I imagine most times you’ll think I’m a horrible bitch, and I’m okay with that. Hell, you’ll probably be right on both counts at some point or another.

Cheers!