What Happens In the Cornfield…

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So I’m back from my week-long trip to Middle of the Cornfield, U.S.A. It was actually an epically planned date from a 3-month-long intense OkCupid romance in case you haven’t been following (scroll back the archives) and if you have you are probably wondering: Can long distance romances work?

Yes they can! They are awesome! Because when the dude, in my case, he who shall never be named outside my therapist’s office (which is the liquor store), decides he has the right to change his mind and spontaneously go all iceberg on you, he can just stealthily disappear into the ether after he dumps you at the airport. There’s no luxury of driving by his house and maybe knocking on the door to ask what the fuck just happened. WHERE HAVE ALL THE HEART EMOTICONS GONE? You won’t be running into him foraging at the Walmart, you won’t get to push your cart into his accidentally on purpose and maybe knocking him over in the process, fucking spineless asshole motherfucker.

No, none of these things will happen. Instead, because he is a trillion miles away, you can just pretend he got abducted by aliens, saving him from his dreary beige life in the bleak cornfields, and you can telepathically wish him well and that his anal probes are lubed with precious Astroglide.

HOW DO YOU MEND A BROKEN HEART?

Bitches need closure, right? Well not this ho. This isn’t like calling up an employer after a job interview to ask why you didn’t get hired and they tell you it’s because you are still rocking the dusty DOS and you better fucking upgrade your computer skills in this century. That would actually be helpful in your future endeavours. My daughter, who just turned 21, with all the bravado of youth, suggested I call and ask what went wrong. Because mature people do that sort of thing, they have civil conversations while they perform their love autopsy, then blithely move on to the next disaster, this time chewing with their mouths closed or trimming their pubes.  But I’m an old woman, I’ve been around the block before, I recognize the tree. There is no fucking point in closure. If a dude wants to slink away without saying goodbye, then let him go. You may have stepped on the wrong eggshell at some point and go over and over in your mind what you could have said or done that was wrong but why would you want to? If you have to worry about leaving a proverbial crumb on the counter (which could have very well been my crime) or measure your words before they plop out of your pie hole because heaven forbid if you sound like a smug ass know-it-all, then fuck him. This is fear-based behaviour because he has issues beyond the abilities of what pharmaceuticals can fix and it’s not my fucking problem, it’s his.

What lay beneath him wasn’t quite what I thought but lucky that I am an old bitch because I kept an inventory of all the red flags in the back of my mind so none of it really came as a surprise. Don’t get me wrong, on the surface he was a gracious, generous host and polite and gentlemanly but sometime around Day 3, there was a palpable shift like something died and was replaced by a barrel of insidious simmering anger in the form of snark. Frederick’s of Hollywood could not save this fantasy.

But! Whatevs. Here are some trip highlights because I actually had fun despite the inner turmoil:

1.  The town diner. I ordered a club sandwich and a bottle of Bud. I GOT CARDED BY THE WAITRESS! I’m like what?! Maybe my infantilizing fuzzy pink scarf is covering my baggy neck but I handed her my passport, and she was like huh, and I said I was 51 in dog years. We laughed, and he who shall not be named was incredulous. This happened only one time though. I drank half the liquor supply in the state of Illinois, you know, to soothe my feelings, and no one else batted an eye. I think I aged about 10 years that week.

2. We went to roadhouse-type strip club which I ended up loving so much I even Yelped about it. It was kind of retro with 50s pinup girl posters and real rugged dudes sitting around the bar being served 8-dollar pitchers of beer by a crusty but friendly barmaid. The girls were young, plump and cornfed, with real swaying boobs and cotton underwear. After they performed on stage to some hair metal band song, they would go around the bar and shimmy up to each of the patrons, and offer to squish their titties up in their face for some motorboating for a mere dollar. Seriously a dollar. It’s like you can’t afford NOT to partake in this.

3. The Santa Claus Parade in the town square where Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglas held their first debate. I became interested in the history of this and even wiki’d later when we got home. You won’t click that link because you just want to read about stripper tits but it’s not all about sex you know. The town was really pretty with lights and festive citizens (100% whiteys) and the parade was rocking. Then we went to see a movie at the local theatre where he who shall not be named found 2 dollar bills on the floor which he snatched up AND RETURNED TO THE CONCESSION STAND. Really? In case some kid lost it, he said. I know I should have thought this was a noble gesture but no, it was just dumb. I think by then I was starting to hate him as much as he hated me. But onwards.

4. Chicago. We went to the Billy Goat Tavern that is the basis of that Belushi “Cheeseburger, no Coke, Pepsi” sketch from SNL. If you are old, you prolly remember, but if you didn’t retain the seventies because of all the coke, here it is, it was CRAZY FUN:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1tFx5xKrSI

5. Deep-dish pizza. Yes, please. We actually had a squabble at Uno’s, the original place where it was supposedly invented. It was about the toppings and I won’t go into it but he let me “win” and probably that was the last nail of my coffin. Still, deep dish pizza is heaven in the pie hole. Pro tip: It is better heated up the next day.

6. Television. You’re going to think this is lame but American TV is fucking awesome. But in particular and PLEASE DON’T JUDGE, I have discovered why lowbrow Americans love the Kardashians. I am not even remotely embarrassed to tell you I watched marathons of “Kourtney and Khloe Take the Hamptons” no less than 4 times. So what. I don’t say anything about you watching “Downton Abbey” which is the same thing only without itchy vaginas. But see how much time I had on my hands?

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So, I got home safely, but profoundly sad that my hopes of living happily ever after in a small town exactly like Stars Hollow on the “Gilmore Girls” would lead to a life of domestic bliss and inspiration to write the Great American Novel once and for all. I cried for two days. But not two solid days. In between the bout of tears was some fits of rage that got me inspired to do laundry and stuff. This is the only way you can move on, you have to feel it, as deeply as you can, otherwise you just swallow it up and get all wretched on the outside. Just saying.

The cool thing that came out of all this has been how all my friends rallied around with all their support and thoughts and theories. The best one was from my resurrected ex who said something like: “Guys do not know about their emotions. That’s why they keep quiet and just disappear.” And they only come back married to someone else. I am doomed. But I have friends who love me. Heart emoticons abound.

So what now?  Restore OkCupid account. Scroll, banter, kik. Lather rinse repeat. SIGH.

Oh! Also: He totally lied about his height.

 

 

Internet Kinksters United

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So I deleted my OkCupid account…okay “suspended” it, it’s currently hibernating like big giant grizzly bear waiting for Spring. Just so you know, during the last couple of months I was on there to “make new friends” which is legit option on the site, it’s not just dating and whatnot. Randomly, serendipitously, miraculously, and mathematically, in August I found my Great White Whale and he’s a keeper. He understands and even embraces my Myers-Briggs ESFP personality quirks: That insatiable need to deep sea dive into the bowels of the internet for all the fucked up crazy-ass antics that people hide in their day-to-day lives. The internet is not just for deep fried ramen noodle recipes, IT IS A FREAK SHOW WHERE THEY ALL COME OUT AND PLAY 24/7. I love it so.

Anyway, back tracking a few weeks ago, one of my family members sent me a barrage of Facebook messages about how my blog was inappropriate for human consumption and my gross sex life should be kept to myself and reminded me that I have children and I should be ashamed, would I talk about such things at the dinner table  and I’ll never get a job and blah blah blah. AND YET! if you can take a week off work and manage to scroll through an hour’s worth of her inane Facebook postings, you will find it littered with Kim Kardashian’s (awesome I must say) oily ass, a reposting of Jian Ghomeshi status declaring his penchant for hard-core BDSM amid all the bitstrip cartoons (no judgement but really?)…so a porn star and a dickhead misogynist, their agenda she sees as A-OK newsfeed fun and yet my cute story of shopping for sensual aids at the Shoppers Drug Mart IN THE SAME AISLE AS BEN-GAY AND DISNEY PRINCESS NIGHT LIGHTS brings shame to the family and doom to my future. I mean, seriously. Like I care. I’m a middle-aged woman with a propensity to unapologetically over-share in a blog that as a grown-ass adult reader, you can choose to read OR NOT.

In any case, I became silenced (but only temporarily, ROAR) out of shame because I am sensitive like that. And I also deleted my beloved OkCupid account because it just became tiresome, like going to the same fucking gym for 17 years and all the fantastic step classes from yesteryear have been replaced by boring ass body sculpt classes THAT DON’T DO SHIT, DON’T KID YOURSELVES. I don’t know where that analogy rant came from but you know what I mean. I have become desensitized by all the internet kink that maybe should just go back to participating in Facebook commentary, Twitterrhea, and Instagram buffoonery. SIGH.

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Kink. Let’s over-share.

I might be “out there” yapdoodling about embarrassing things, but on the grey scale of kinky, where Jian Ghomeshi is leather strap black, I am like a soft heather grey sweatshirt, you know the kind of faux- retro white flecked fleece they have at Forever 21. I am what they call vanilla, more or less. I have one little “kink” and thanks to the other over-sharers on the internet, I found out I am not alone. I have an ear fetish. Not your ears, don’t be sending me your ape-like lug hole pics, my own ears. I like having my ears fiddled with, even when the doctor does things to them. I had an ear infection over the summer and as a result, my left ear drum became punctured by the excess pus fluid…YES, TRUE STORY, contrary to urban legend, I did not jab a shish kebob stick in there, I SWEAR. Consequently, I’ve had to go to the hospital to have a mini hoover stuck in my ear to suck out all the  goo to keep it dry. The doctor is hoping that in time, the hole heals itself, so I can avoid surgery. I, on the other hand, am hoping this goes on forever. I get dressed up for these appointments. For one thing, can the intern be any cuter? And for another, I am in heaven with a hose in my ear canal. He barely has to flip the switch and my toes are curling, my eyes are rolling in back of my head. Last time, though, I had a different intern, a little Asian dude who did NOT get me at all. His hose technique was awkward, it kept falling out, he kept apologizing (DON’T! Shut up! Just stick the fucking thing in!) and gingerly had to placed  it back in mid-suck, so it actually hurt, and it was a big letdown. And at the end, when I demanded to see what splooged up in the Kleenex, he was reluctant and actually said: “Why? Do you have a fetish or something?” OF COURSE I HAVE A FETISH, WTF? WHY ELSE AM I WEARING FISHNET STOCKINGS IN A HOSPITAL?  Oh my God.

The internet satisfies my kink by giving me YouTube of people having their ears cleaned. You know how on every city block we have Vietnamese nail salons? Well in Vietnam they have ear cleaning salons by delicate ladies fastidiously digging away at ear canals using long, sharp, pointy instruments. Are you kidding? I am dying, DYING to go to Vietnam. In other parts of the world, they have men do this also on the roadsides and beaches, that I am not so sure about participating, but I’d like to go and watch. Holy shit, this:

RIGHT? If you watched that and got a chub then you and I are going to be really good friends.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

My very first encounter with an Internet Kinkster happened innocently enough through the on-line Scrabble games. At first the site just matched you up with whoever but the people began to state their preferences for chatting or not. It took about half a minute for the fetish crowd to catch on. One day I clicked on some guy from the U.K.’s game and he messaged me: “Before we start the game, did you read my profile?” I hadn’t but went back and saw he wrote this: “Oxford student, looking for ladies of all ages. Your flatulence is my pleasure.”

This was even before meme culture gave us this:

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But that pretty much nailed my reaction. But dive deep is what I do and I needed to  poke this weirdo with a spear and see what kind of creature he really was.

Me: “Yes, that’s cool, let’s play.”  I plunk down the first word.

He: “Can you describe one of your farts?” He promptly plays a good word I haven’t heard of but I am too lazy to look up and learn something new.

He is an Oxford student after all. He must be smart. he moves fast so he’s probably not cheating like I am.

Me: “This one I just had seeped deeply into the couch.” I stole that line from an old roommate when we used to watch tv and drink Diet Coke all night, she was positively poetic. This is going to be fun, I think, as I put down a decent word on the board. Scrabblecheat. com, holla.

He: “Delightful! How did it feel?” *plays “Q” on triple point* Yikes, he has a good vocabulary and can strategize.

Me: “Fucking amazing, like dynamic power of a leaf blower mixed with sweet relief of a cool breeze on a hot day.” Whatever. I plunk down all my letters in a lame place for a bonus 50, thank god because I’m already 100 points behind.

He: “Oh my God, what did it smell like?” He changed his letters and passed a turn. I never do this. I am impressed when people do. Isn’t it better to play a crummy 3-letter word than no word at all?

Me: “A very rich hunk of triple cream Danish Blue with a high note of hard boiled quail eggs.” I have nothing but low quality vowels and play “aioli.” Ridiculous.

I feel like I can hear him giggling in an out of control  British hyena accent from all the way across the Atlantic. This has to be a joke.

He: “You are an angel, my dear, straight from the heavens. Would you open your bottom on my face and let Polly out of prison?”  He plays an “X” on a double triple point.  Aaargh. I have 3 U’s.

And I think to myself: Okay, do I need a special dictionary to play with this dude? Who or what Polly out of prison does he mean? (and btw, it’s a euphemism for farting, thank you, Urban Dictionary, without you I’d probably be doing something useful like learning Spanish)  MOST IMPORTANTLY: HOW ON EARTH DOES HE EXPECT ME TO SIT ON HIS FACE FROM A BILLION MILES AWAY?

I decided to just ignore the chat and keep playing, I am gaining momentum in the game and I love a Scrabble challenge more than anything. Except having my ears fiddled with, lol. So when I didn’t respond after the next turn, dude deleted the game. At first I thought WHAT AN ASSHOLE but now years later, several million hours spent scrolling through the sea of lemon parties, goatsees, and scatpaloozas, I have a whole new respect an admiration for the early pioneers of the internet, putting their kinks and fetishes out there, hoping for a kindred spirit to fart on their face or whatever. I think about that young Oxford gentleman from time to time, especially after a bean burrito, and wonder if he ever found his Polly. I hope so because if there is one thing I learned from the Wild World of the Webs is that there is a lid for every pot. And a bunch of toys too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pokey and Lamb Chop Sitting in a Tree…NOW WHAT???????

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I’m a fretter. When I’m not fretting about something, I’m gearing up to fret. I long to not fret but fretting is my M.O. so if I don’t have something to fret about, I will make something up. I fret, therefore I am. Help. I need your love and support. You can fap to my fretting, it’ll be fun.

Back up a post or 3 for the new folks, but most of y’all too lazy to scroll and too catatonic to read unless you see some keywords like #pussy #fuckbuddy #gameofthrones, so I’ll toss them off my front porch for you to sniff….NOW COME ON IN and I’ll give you the TL;DR version and we’ll move on from there:

Lady Hermit (me) puts up a dating profile on OkCupid in the summer.

Seeks an “electrician” for a “lightbulb change.”

Logistically, this is something that has to be done by local fellers. The hipster in a towel, the hedonist in the Target parking lot. Just try not to get murdered, and game on.

Doesn’t get murdered. Instead, unbeknownst to her the universe is gearing up to throw her a bone like she’s never seen/heard/stuck in her mouth before. She’s an awake wolf now, in full-on hunt mode, frothing at the mouth and creaming up her panties. She clicks on a trillion profiles and finds her 99% match in Illinois. They begin a cordial (LOL!) internet courtship. Some sort of full moon happens, Lady Hermit’s flower blooms again after many moons of dormancy. She spontaneously menstruates whilst messaging her 99% match right after finding out his true identity of which in her wildest imagination could not be hotter. Then she frets. He can’t change her lightbulb because he lives 843 kilometres away in the middle of a cornfield.

He is Pokey, she is Lamb Chop. Dey fallz in luv like 2 stoopid LOLCats OVER THE GODDAMN INTERNET. It turns out it can happen so don’t go rolling your eyes and clucking like my mother. Just stay with me for the time being, I’m going to need you for the What Happens Next part.

So that was the condensed backstory from the last two posts you were too lazy to read, next headline:

POKEY CAME AND VISITED LAMB CHOP IN REAL LIFE.

Shit got real. I know, scary as fuck. It’s one thing to text, talk on the phone, and stalk on the internet, but it’s another thing to actually meet someone in the flesh. What if you don’t like each other? What if all the great communication was part of a fantasy you built up in your head and there is no animal lust? The sense of smell and touch finally come into play and those are the most primal indicators of attraction. Although I did send my panties to him so I know I was good sniffin’ but what if he didn’t like all my weird quirks, the hair twirling, always having to stuff things in my mouth like said hair, nose that bobbles up and down when I talk, walks a bit like a duck, can’t eat without spilling on tits, et cetera, holy shit there’s a reason I’ve been single for so long. As for me and my preferences, I’m weird about smell. I don’t mind pungent odours but if I don’t like the flavour of your salami-and-cheese-smelling underarm sweat, I probably won’t like you. It’s such a subtle thing, those pheromones are like poetry for the olfactory. I AM A SENSITIVE BEAST OF THE URBAN JUNGLE WHO WILL JUDGE A MALE APE BY HIS SHOES. Please don’t be pointy.

Also no matter how many hours that stretched out into days and weeks that we clocked in talking on the phone, real life is going to be nerve racking. We didn’t even FaceTime, too scary. We did make a pact that we would treat our 6 day date as an arranged marriage. There will be bone no matter what.There is no hotel buffer, Pokey is going to plant himself on my raft for the entire stay, no bailing allowed. My understanding of constant bone-age is that at some point the hormone of oxytocin will kick in and I will be all sexually addicted and lust crazed. I want this very much. Ask any dude whose had to put up with my show, I am like a cold, frozen fish that needs to be banged repeatedly on the counter in order to thaw out. 5 days should do it.

I had an outfit planned for his arrival, at least part of an outfit…a Chicago Bears shirt because HE LIKES TO WATCH FOOTBALL ON TV. I couldn’t figure out the rest of the outfit and a fucking fretted about it for a week. This is a good, the nerves, they keep your tits up, but PROTIP: never wear anything that you haven’t done a trial run in. I wore a skirt and pantyhose with high boots and everything felt bunched and pinched. Also, picking someone up at Porter is a lunch bag letdown because you don’t get out of the car and pose like a hooker because they make you twirl around and hover in your vehicle in order to prohibit upright intercourse.

Fret.

I warned Pokey ahead of time of my cold fish ways and not to interpret my initial standoffishness as repulsion, it’s just nerves and panic that make me look like an impenetrable evil Disney witch. It’s a defence mechanism and I can’t help that my eyebrows are exquisitely arched just so once sideways glance will make your balls shrivel up.

I do not remember the part where Pokey and I first met in the flesh and it was only 9 days ago. I mean, I could recount it as a video would have captured it in a court of law but I don’t remember how I felt or what I thought or how he looked or any other poetic detail that you have grown to expect of me. But! We did go first stop to the drug store to buy loob  and a vibrating cock ring, and this will the one bone I throw to you.

I could tell you all the details about the 6 day date because Pokey doesn’t read this blog so we can talk behind behind his back but I won’t because you’ll probably get all bored and eye rolly and mock me for wearing a Bears shirt and shake yo head in judgment our vanilla kink bucket list…that only got partially fulfilled because SIX DAYS IS SO SHORT FOR LOL CATS IN LOVE!

All I will say is that there was no fretting, just that floating blissful feeling that I got off those drugs they gave me when I had that colonoscopy in May, where you are only too happy to submit to an anal probe and everything is all good and at the end of it, you don’t care if you fart in front in front of everyone. THOSE ARE POWERFUL DRUGS. Shit, I gave birth to two babies with a clenched up sphincter cuz I was afraid of what would accidentally rear its head. It is fair to say I can compare my love for Pokey as the unclenching of my proverbial asshole and fearlessly letting all the shit come out like sweet relief. This guy is a keeper. And! I love his smell.

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Okay,nice, now he is gone and we are back to all that texting only now we freely do FaceTits without worrying about angles or lighting. It’s much better than just talking. BUT! I’M BACK TO FRETTING.  I need you to talk some sane into me.

If he texts me without a thicket of emoticons like hearts, pine trees, and milk bottles, I immediately think he hates me. I spiral into a tailspin of despair and doom. I assume the worst.

What if I say something offhand that I think is meaningless and he takes offence and writes me off? Text messaging is a land-mine for misinterpretation and assumption. There is a cornfield filled with a whole lot of nothing where he lives so if I get dumped, it’s going to be personal.

I can’t handle being dumped so what if my inner trolling self-saboteur devil, you know the one that feeds off self-loathing, comes out and picks fights OVER THE PHONE, the worst, and he hangs up on me?

Why do I worry about things that haven’t happened yet?

Speaking of the future, what will happen or not happen? When do things happen? Why did I ever say take things day-by-day? Isn’t that for potheads? What is the fine line between “too soon” and “now?” How long is limbo? I hate limbo. I need an end goal.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT??????? This is not a rhetorical question.

Shit, also I almost forgot to tell you, in the midst of it all, I got fired from my job, although in truth, it was a horrible, inhospitable work environment that I am relieved to never have to experience again. But! When the universe throws me a bone, it feels compelled to taketh something away for good measure and now I have to once again compound my fretting with more advanced fretting like job searching.

I will get wrinkles fo sho. Fuck. Imma gonna need one of those special facials but he is 8 TRILLION BILLION MILES AWAY IN A FUCKING CORNFIELD! And no, I’m not going on Tindr. Jesus. I’m going to grow so much hair during the next full moon, I just know it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tale of Pokey and Lamb Chop

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Prelude, hookers:  If this wasn’t currently happening to me, and somebody else told me this story, I would be all supportive and whatnot but then I would soooooo laugh behind their back. What. A. Fucking. Loser.  I am fully aware of what you’ll think of me but I don’t care, I am currently on another planet, so here goes:

He had me at “Buenos Penis.” The very first time he messaged me on OkCupid, I felt a palpable stirring in my inbox. It was August 17, I had been on the site over a month. I had been fielding a vast array of interweb suitors from far and wide, from ages 18-99. Yes, I cast my net wide! They all had my oh-so brief attention but I am like a dick gnat, I will buzz around a few seconds, maybe swoop around the balls then up the shaft and sniff at the head a bit, then drop dead of exhaustion. So. Many. Veins.

Enter Pokey. Or: Enter, Pokey.

In my quest for casual, every day bone, I was also obsessed with the notion of finding my 99% compatibility match. I can talk the talk of a jaded old broad with a drawer full of bobby pins in her night side table (don’t ask) but it’s still an interesting thought that there may be someone out there who completes you and by the way, fuck you, I like that term, it’s romantic to the nth degree. I am all about maths and logic. I think this is where true intuition stems from, the perfection of the absolute. People always say things like “I listen to my heart.” Here’s a newsflash: Your heart says dick all, all it does is pumps blood through your veins if you are lucky, it has no other magical powers than that. It’s your stupid brain that tells you that you are lonely and your neglected vagina might need a rutting and then the confusion between love and sex starts. Your fucking heart doesn’t know shit, it’s along for the ride. It only flutters and skips a beat when you see your crush because your brain is doing you a solid and giving you signals. That fluttering and skipping sensation? That’s your brain telling your heart: Fight or Flight. Pro tip: If you feels that heart-jumping feels, it’s best to flight that one, he is usually a prick.

I found Pokey’s profile in my 99 search. He had no head! Just a profile pic of his torso in a black tshirt with an arm. WTF!? The thumbnail looked like a pencil dick. He is older than me and he lives 853 kilometers away in Illinois. His written profile was short and eloquent and irreverent but it sang a special song to me: I believe in space aliens, yo. I am not fully domesticated. 

As a rule, I don’t message people first, because I am the bunny in the tale of my ridiculously barren love life. But Pokey saw my lurking activity, this is the key to successful OkCupid transactions, make sure people can see you’ve been on their profile otherwise you’re nobody unless you’re a stalker. He messaged me first. He charmed me and wrote me a poem and made me laugh. Hardly anyone makes me actually LOL, sometimes just snort a bit, this is a bonus. I wrote back, he replied. Why he does he have no face on his profile? I know what you’re thinking: Because he is married, you dumb bitch. Yes, this is what I thought also but! He lives in a small town and they don’t need to rifle through his answers to the questions: Do you take masturbation breaks at work? And will the word get out around town that yes, he does sometimes with the door shut. Y’all know I’m a different bird with no filter or common sense but then I don’t have to go to the supreme court and argue in front of judges for a living. We bantered back and forth for three days. Then nothing. A whole entire day went by. I didn’t even know his real name or had seen a picture of his face. I was actually bummed out even though this sort of fast and furious communication happens all the time on the Cupid and then disappears into the ether, and usually by me.

And then he messaged me, he had accidentally blocked me on his phone app! So easy to do, I have done it before! He hadn’t heard from me and he was worried! And I was depressed! But we were back! Obsessively messaging like long lost lunatics! Who use exclamation points! All the time!

I finally asked him what his name was, even though in a way I didn’t want to know anything external about him. What does a 50something lawyer in the midwest of Amurrica look like? All I could think was Greg Kinnear. My lady boner was confused and afraid but I needed to know. So he said, “I’ll give you a clue, look on the wiki page of Middle-of-a-Cornfield, Illinois, and you will find me.”  Ugh, wtf, of course I had already googled that town up days before and read all about the underground railroad and some radiation disaster. So back I went to the “notable people” section. Well he’s too young to have founded the boyscouts or be that actor who played a lawyer on “All My Children,” OR BE MY FAVOURITE FILM DIRECTOR OF ALL TIME (it’s not him), so by default he must be….the dude from the 80s punk band! Okay, I am not going to reveal his name at this point in time but he is so NOT Greg Kinnear, holy shit…he is Hispanic and H*O*T.

I almost died right then and there, I really did, drowning in my own cum puddle, because then I googled him and found a youtube video of what was his band’s last performance in Seattle in 1987 and ding, ding went the bells in my idiot savant brain: I WAS AT THAT MOTHERFUCKING SHOW 26 YEARS AGO! Wut? How could this have been so star crossed? I was in Seattle for a friend’s wedding, and trust, I am never in Seattle EVER, and her brother was in charge of taking care of me because she had pre-nuptual activities, and he took me to that very show. I remember hardly anything else and was oblivious to the fact that the birth of grunge was imminent but that is that. Serendipity, yo. I believes! I don’t care what y’all say, that is a magical worm hole as a random mathematic pattern right there.

So the very next day, Pokey went out and bought an iPhone and changed his phone plan from a laughable 300 minutes to infinity and the ability to text outside of the U.S. of A. I, too, changed my phone plan AND sent him a pair of panties in the mail that I wore over night. The deal has been sealed.

On the phone, Pokey calls me Lamb Chop but he says, in a thick Chicago accent that he doesn’t think he has: LYAMB CHAHP. When I lay on the bed, and he talks to me, my toes curl. I hug my pillow.

We text in each all day in LOLCats dialect: I haz the feels. Pokey, we be like two cats sitting on a window sill in the ghetto with our tails entwined.

Of course, I realize that when Pokey and Lamb Chop finally meet in person in October, it could go tits up, actually yes, that is the basic missionary which is first thing on the agenda…it could turn to shit, is what I mean, I’ve been to the internet rodeo before but allz I know for now, Pokey doesn’t make my heart skip or flutter, he causes this: 2H2(g) + O2(g) → 2H2O(g), and that’s combustion to fuel a rocket, baby.

 

 

 

 

The Kinsey Report Redux (OkCupid Edition)

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My brain snapped. It was palpable, I felt it happened some time last month. I have barely set foot on Facebook, my usual internet stomping grounds, in weeks!  And you know where I’ve been all day and into the wee hours of the night: Scrolling the ho stroll on the OkCupid, I am obsessed. I can’t stop reading profiles and I have all new friends, we don’t just “like” each other’s profiles, we give them stars! And we don’t post pictures of our breakfast burritos, we take our pants off (proverbially and actually) with each other and show our junk. It is awesome.

My brain is so sexed up, I am like a teenage boy. Everything is innuendo, it’s ridiculous. Remainder man came over this morning and installed a new back liftgate handle, if that’s not porno plot right there, I don’t know what is. He took the broken one off with some great effort and grunting, “It’s so tight.” of course it is, and put the new one on, with a SCREW and kept muttering, “I can’t find the hole,” and I’m like, RIGHT HERE, MY MAN. I’m a teenager with an urban vocabulary of a seasoned pervert. My handle works like dream, by the way.

Scene:

I’m at a Farmer’s Market on one of those days that have passed recently, it’s been a blur. I’m eating a sausage, of course, watching one of those couples who walk around these places with their reusable bags filled with mystery chard and beets and radishes for what? You know all that shit will rot til next Tuesday but they still try even though they are both probably bored. It’s a heroic effort, coupledom is.

“What should we have for dinner tonight?” he asks in a politically correct way. My vagina cringes when men say things like that. YOU (man) can go out in the woods and hunt a deer and come home with it and I will cook it up on the fire YOU made and then WE will eat it with the chards of shite I, by myself because I don’t want you dragging at my heels, went and got at the fucking Farmer’s Market.

And she replies, all diplomatically: “Well what about the snapper with a tossed salad?”

And I, with my teen boy boner brain, translate: “Yes! They’re bringing in a lady pinch hitter for a threesome and they’ll be engaging in rim jobs! They are not so vanilla after all!” And they drive off in their Volkwagen Toureg and my faith in humanity was restored.

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So I am justifying my vast time suck on OkCupid as social research, kind of like a modern-day Kinsey report, that includes the wide world of interwebs, texting, sexting, dick ‘n’ pussy pics, hookups, booty calls, dates, and all the emotional discourse you would think would be masked in the anonymity of the internet. But isn’t. IT IS SO AMAZING.

I have some notes thus far, that I think I’ll just bang out randomly and maybe at some point it will all make sense…or maybe it’s not supposed to, who knows? Are you with me? Here goes:

I found my 99% match. What is that? Who cares? I do, I take these things seriously because I’ve answered so many fucking questions in the last few weeks, I have to respect the system. They match you somehow, based on how, not just what you answered in the thousands of questions they provide. I think they also use keywords from your profile and spy on you over a webcam. This dude, 99, I excitedly messaged him, he lives in the 50 kilometre radius. He’s cute and really funny. I say “,”Hi, blah blah blah, I like your profile, 99 blah blah” he messages “Thanks” and goes on my profile and writes more: “Your profile is fan-fucking-tastic! But you might want to tweak it if you want to meet some quality men but if you’re DTF then don’t change a thing.” I don’t really know what he means by “quality” as I love all my Cupidlings, they are dear in my heart. 99% says his dance card is full but he’ll put my on his bucket list. Oh lol. I have since cast my net wider and found more 99%’s and I’m seriously going to need to dust off my passport to GGG all of them. I don’t know what that means either.

Where does the jizz go? That’s one of the questions they ask. It’s not a rhetorical question like where time flitters away, it’s for practical purposes. I know precisely where I want the jizz to go, and I am answering the question from another one of my 99%’s profile, if I say an answer and he says some other answer and feels it is very important I that I answer a certain way, THIS MAY JEOPARDIZE OUR RATING! I’m sweating over this, IT’S REAL LIFE, PEOPLE, NOT A GAME! WHERE DOES THE JIZZ GO????? I answer with honesty and figure, if he answers differently then oh well, HE LIVES FUCKING ILLINOIS ANYWAY! So I answer, gingerly: The Face. Hit “Answer” button, hold breath…..And his answer? The Face. OMG, if I wasn’t smitten already, I was OVER THE MOON. And yes, the jizz goes on the face, do not judge, I am a grown ass woman and that’s where I like it. I’ll explain later when we get to why I don’t date vegans.

Moving your conversations over to Kik: This means only one thing: Powder up your decollete, because you are going to be sending pictures now. When they ask: “Let’s swap pics” they don’t want your face, they mean release the hounds and take off your panties. I am of two minds about this: I DO NOT LIKE DOING THIS AND I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS. There’s no real pay off here. I learned the hard way, I sent a pussy pic to a dude who wanted it soooooo bad, whatevs, I really don’t care about disembodied parts out in the ether or nudity in general for that matter. There’s a vast array of cold cuts out on Reddit GoneWild, I could have just sent someone else’s but no, I spent a half a day fluffing my cooch up, getting just the right angle, talking to it, glistening it with Elizabeth Arden’s 8 Hour Cream, smoothing out the lips just so, twisting my arm around my thigh so I could snap the picture head on and finally got a shot I was satisfied with and sent it. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: Here is pussy  ((:))

He: Ohhhh…what’s that?

Me: What do you mean?

He: On the top part?

Me: The pubes you mean?

He: Oh pubic hair! I haven’t seen that!

Me: I’m a 70s child, they’re totally groomed as a small triangle and bald on the sides, WTF?

He: No, no, it’s okay

Me: Why did you want me to send it anyway?

He: Because I like your personality.

See what I have to deal with?

Why do people send dick pics anyway? As a woman, do you find they help or harm their owners’ causes, or is it only the…notable ones which can help?  My very favourite Cupidling asked me this the other day. I never really ask for a dick pic, they just somehow insist on sending them. I know when I get one, and I praise it, I will get another one in an even more erect state shortly thereafter. This happens 100% of the time. One can conclude, the reason they send dick pics is they want you to praise it. That is all. I feel there is no more cause after the sent button is pressed. Nice HUGE dick, the end.

Booty Call Protocol: I have no hard fast rules on this! I am a free bird! I have never felt so empowered in my entire life! What makes a booty call come into fruition? I have no idea. Some of the Cupidlings I just want to wait for, milk it out in messaging. I know dudes hate that (“I don’t want to be penpals”) but the art of wooing a lady is to get in her head, that is where is the juice comes from! Seriously, be patient. On the other hand, there are certain times where I can just let it happen. I’m always all nervous with that fight or flight conundrum but! THERE WAS A FULL MOON TWO WEEKS AGO AND I HAD ORGASMPALOOZA. I’m so glad I chose fight both times. I appreciated the simple details that were involved, one guy wore elasticized waist track pants and the other guy answered his door in a towel so there was no outfit I could judge harshly. Like pointy shoes and an Ed hardy tshirt would be a deal breaker. Flight!

And here is a cautionary tale: This weekend, one dumb dude who pretends to read Chomsky, messaged me as he does every second weekend when he doesn’t have his kids, I recognize his pattern already. I almost caved. His give zero fucks attitude toward wooing me or even bothering to read my profile and understand its subtle nuances, almost charmed me. His face was that kind of white guy face I hate, I could totally hate fuck him and it would be awesome, I’ve read his pretentious asshole profile before but I looked closer and noticed he was a vegan! I can’t with that! I messaged him quickly before I completely caved in: “You are a vegan, your jizz lacks the essential meat enzymes I need for my face :( ” And then he said: “But I have the meat!” And an hour later, he sent me a dick pic. And I did not know what to say. His junk was all splayed and mangled out over top of his boxers. IT LOOKED LIKE BUTTERMILK BRINED CHICKEN PIECES BEFORE THE PANKO BREADCRUMBS. My vagine might be a lot of things, but it isn’t a deep fryer, there was no way that was going in me. FLIGHT!

All I can say is the full moon can’t come fast enough….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Conjuring Up Bone (OkCupid Edition)

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Okay my furry friends and cuddling comrades, I finally got a job last week which I’m not going to tell you about at all EVER. We know what mayhem happens when one blogs about work, I am the social media poster child of What Happens At Work Should Not Be Blogged About Because We At The Dusty Box Have No Sense Of Humour Whatsoever. One week in and I have so many juicy little nuggets that I’m busting to talk about, so stay tuned, they might slip out disguised as fictional characters.

Also I am on Week 3 of my adventures on OkCupid. I am still completely obsessed, my hermit lifestyle is in peril. Last post, for the new arrivals take note: if you want to  scroll down further, we went over some tips on how the menfolk should woo a lady on-line. I am very so pleased at how many Cupid dudes took the time to read my blog, even though they had another option. They have all been so very nice and gentlemanly. I love them all! Their ethereal boners and their solid dick pics mean a lot to me. And especially the poetry.

Lately, however,  most of my Cupid time is spent scrolling through the other women’s profiles. It’s smart marketing to check the competition, am I right?

There’s zillions of them and their pictures are all so promising, there are a Costco-load hot of MILFs out there, but! what is up with their written profiles?  AM I THE ONLY ONE AROUND HERE INTERESTED HAVING SEX? Aren’t every single one of these women suffering from a post-divorce, post-cougar-rampage dry spell? Their profiles are so boring, how do they expect some dude on his laptop in his underwear, scratching his balls, to respond? Even the chick with the whip lists her “loving family and her great friends” as her things she cannot live without. Maybe she ties them up? That is what your audience is hoping for, just so you know, they do not give a fuck about your Friday night yoga class or that you read some fucking book, I cannot even be bother to think of a title, it’s so boring.

Most of these women are doomed to be future cat ladies. It’s true. Seriously, tell me what you would think of someone who answered the following question:

What are you doing with your life?

 I AM LOVING MY LIFE AND LIVING IT TO ITS FULLEST!

What the ever loving fuck does that even mean? 9 out of 10 women have that response in their profile AND YET somewhere else if you scroll down, they will inevitably say they enjoy “jazz, cooking, and really good wine”….REALLY GOOD WINE…really, sister? I am so on to you. Admit you have a box of L’ Ambiance white plonk in your fridge, and by cooking you mean you put a brie wheel in the oven and the only jazz you are listening to is the riff in the opening credits of Sex and the City that your watching on your laptop in your stained yoga pants.

The real tragedy is that the wine guzzling househag you really are would be way more fun to date than the pretentious twat you portray yourself in your  profile. If you said, for example, that on your typical Friday you are consuming an entire brie wheel to yourself, do you know how many men would be lining up in your in-box , scratching to get in? They will come in droves. Men love cheese, and ladies, let’s stand together and forget all these man vegans who actually righteously fill that in on their profile eating habits. Digressing a bit, can you imagine actually boning a man who is a strict vegan? I feel like his peenie would like a little sprite sprig that would take way too much effort to spew out a tiny shot of bitter green fluid, barf. Swipe these dudes to the left, move them along. No sister, you want the pussy-eating cheese loving A-team in your box.

Oh wait, let’s scroll down your profile, you actually don’t want that. No hook-ups. You and your vagine are far too precious for casual bone, you know that’s a penis in a polo shirt. No “casual” sex for you. You are looking for a “long-term relationship.” On the internet, no less, and yet you have the colossal nerve to dismiss a perfectly good dude based on your criteria which is:

HE IS NOT TALL ENOUGH!

I hate women like this, and I know so very many who are barely over 5 feet and yet they insist on going out with men who over 6 feet. Tall men love diminutive chicks because they make them manlier. THINK OF THE BLOOD FLOW THO!  It takes a long time for the Mississippi to go from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico. This is why short men are better, they have blood gushing every which way, it’s instant boner erectus, even if you just tap their shoulder for a half a second. You know there will be a time, after your ridiculous 3 month dating rule, when you will finally have to put out for your giant internet trophy to stick his dick in you, and you will be all like, what the fuck? when he can’t get it up and it’s because he’s stuck in Tennessee, his navel had a hernia waiting for you, and that’s all because you gave him blue balls with your ridiculous rules. This may have been the worst metaphor I’ve ever made but my point is maybe stop with your strict criteria. Short men are as hot, if not hotter, they often have that arrogant personality that is really important when you are a submissive (me). Just saying.

I just don’t get what is wrong with casting a wide net when you are looking for dudes on-line. Why not check the “casual sex” box on your profile? I know every dumb ass stupid man thinks this means you are a hooker doing pro bono work on a Tuesday night, as if. Direct them to  Craigslist then. I learned this one the hard way, I thought the guy was joking when he said COME OVER at 7 a.m on a weekday morning. So I entertained him as I got ready for work. By the way, I’m one of those people that has to allow leisure time in the morning rather than sleeping until the last minute, that’s just me, I am a big proponent of the morning wood project. Note to self: I should mention this in my profile along with my prowess at logrolling. Anyway that dude actually thought I was coming over for a nooner (I take the blame entirely for that because I thought why not? as I was trying to put on that wretched winged eyeliner I still have yet to master, so frustrating!)…so when I didn’t actually show up, he was seriously mad! Apparently I wasted his time as an unemployed self-employed person. Yes, fap fap fap, sorry you skipped a fap, there’s always the afternoon fap you can make up for, fap fap fap. Too bad, he was kind of a cute weirdo, with a soft furry head like puppy. Sigh.

What is casual sex anyway? It’s the sex you have on the couch while watching tv. That’s my definition anyway. It means you may or may not put out after the first date, possibly the second, maybe the third, likely the fourth, pretty much a sure thing after the fifth but without some weird idea that we are exclusive and heading for some boneheaded delusion of long-term hit-my-head-with-a-frying-pan commitment. And I want to go on dates with different dudes. Why am I the only female animal who wants to be in the dinghy beside the proverbial Noah’s Ark? Catching the rogue lions and bears who fall off the boat, no giraffes for me though, they’re just too goddamn tall.

You know where my in-box is, call me.

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Wooing a Lady (OkCupid Edition)

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“What is a beautiful lady such as yourself doing on this website?”

LOL

I re-activated my OkCupid profile last week. It’s been 7 whole days and I’m still on it! Last time I lasted less than 24 hours and the time before 5 whole days which led to that hilarious cub encounter buried deep in the archives, here let me pull that up for you.

I am having the best time ever! I tweaked my profile to display my sardonic wit which I thought would separate the men from the boys but it does not: “Message me if your dick is pointing in my general direction” separates the cobras from the turtles and that is alright by me. Age is just a number, right? OkCupid is a free for all. It’s a dick salad! Why are these people only on the internet? Where is the dick salad in real life? I don’t get it, but whatever, I AM GLUED TO MY COMPUTER AND I NEED A BREAK.

There’s a fuckton of dating sites out there and they all have their own flavour. I told you before I get mailings from match dot com, the morning scrolling of scrotum of middled age losers seeking breeding possibilities, gross. Then there’s LavaLIfe, so complicated and segregated: What if I am looking for Prince Charming AND an awesome Hate Fuck (more on this later)? I have to fucking write two profiles and think of more than one user name (the hardest part of joining any dating site). Also there’s Plenty of Fish which I think your mom is on. I guess I am your mom so I should shut up but I just don’t want to be part fish culture, it’s so fishy.

OkCupid is like a big giant sports stadium cum (lol) refuge centre after Noah”s Ark sank and everyone needed a place to go to change their underwear and grab a hot dog or whatever. Plus it’s a place where you can find out a lot about yourself and your inner desires, especially when you have to answer all those inane multiple choice match questions (which you can do at your leisure bits at a time). I do value intellect and a sense of humour and hopefully they get that random math question right because otherwise they will never find your Gspot. Some of the questions make no sense when you think about matching with someone, for example: Do you wear underwear? YES, EVERYDAY, I’M A SNAIL FFS. What if HE went commando? I don’t care. Does it bother him that I wear underwear? It shouldn’t. Does he like to keep his furniture clean? Stupid.

My week started out in a civilized manner. I re-activated my old profile with some CURRENT pictures PLUS my Instagram feed AND a link to this blog so you know I’m not a bot, I got nothing to hide. I got some nice cordial responses and an offer to go for drinks with asuper hot young dude who looked like post-modern Jesus as shot by Mario Testino who would probably be able to walk down any given street and every man, woman, and child (over 16) would want his number. They come and then they disappear into ether of the internet as though they are just a dream. Sigh.

Then on Sunday I tweaked my profile. I added some things and I answered all the bondage questions. Now I can’t breathe. So many messages AND I WANT TO ANSWER THEM ALL BUT I CAN’T!

So I have tips for y’all when responding to an ad, they are me-specific but they could be applied to anybody really, and please if you have any of your own, leave a comment below.

1. You need to actually read someone profile. I know that it hard in the world of ADHD mobile apps where you scroll and swish to the left and you have to keep fingering to til you get to your favourite OCD number (mine are sets of 12). But if you are going to message someone, you should read what they took the time to write. YOU SHOULD WRITE ONE OF YOUR OWN. I would rather see someone’s boneheaded list of 6 Things You Can’t Live Without be: 1. Beer, 2. my dick, 3. pussy, 4. more pussy, 5. your mom’s pussy 6. my cat than left blank. It’s not hard (that’s what she said).

2. When you leave your first message, don’t just say “Hi ;)” YOU NEED TO KNOW YOU WILL BURIED IN THE VERY BOTTOM OF DICK SALAD LIKE A SLIVER OF RAW ONION. Read the lady’s profile. Then you write: “Oh hi, I like your profile. I love fried chicken!” And trust, the lady will write back and before you know it, you will EATING fried chicken. Yes.

3. If the lady does not respond right away, wait. Oh my God, just because the green dot is on does not mean she’s a cable rep. She might just be eating her dick salad slowly, maybe she’s enjoying sucking on a kalamata olive, DO NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY. Try again tomorrow.

4. Just because the result of answering all those questions yields a low result of an under 50% match, does not mean you should dismiss that person. There is one question that got me thinking which was: “Could you have sex with someone you hated?” And I thought about it and YES.! YES! YES! YES! And now that’s what I want. I found someone I could tell just by looking at his face that I would HATE him and now I can’t stop thinking about him. He would totally NOT get me and think I was sloppy and ridiculous and I would think he was boring and tedious and would tell each other to shut up and we would look at each like, BLARGGGGH I HATE YOUR GUTS and then some jolt would come out no where and in an instant we’d be pounding each other in a rhythm that only the darkest jungle has ever felt. Five stars I gave him. I have yet to hear back.

5. Married dudes, let me redirect to Ashley Madison dot com. There’s a whole bunch of them with faces obscured, scrolling, trolling like they belong here. Some of them say they are in “open relationships” and their wives are cool with this. No judgment to any of you but this lady has no fucking interest. Literally. Nothing more boner-killing than a grown man who gets his kicks from sneaking around from his “mommy.” It’s just not hot. I don’t run on an appointment schedule, THAT IS WHAT A RUB N TUG IS FOR.

6. Setting up a date. This is the tricky part! Once you’ve had some clever back and forth banter, it may be time to move over to exchanging phone numbers. I made a rookie mistake by giving my phone number out too early and I like sleep at night with my phone on because I have kids might be calling from the police station. I DO NOT WANT PENIS PICTURES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! I know what it looks like and it’s not a visual thing for me. It’s the velvety tactileness that keeps me coming back. DO NOT BE IMPATIENT WITH THE LADY. Don’t forget she is a lone wolf, she probably hasn’t smelled a man in a while, she spooks easily.

7. If you say to the lady at ANY time: “Would you like to go for coffee” you will be promptly taken out of the dick salad and thrown directly in the compost bin. Lady does drinks. Not. Coffee.

8. If the lady disappears into the the internet ether, then let her go. It’s a fish stew out there for you, go get some.

I haven’t actually gone on an OkCupid date since that last one, two summers ago, so I don’t have any good tips of how to conduct yourselves, that’s up to you and your instincts. Also I promise not to blog (without permission of course, and I had permission that last time) about anything that goes on, as I am a lady. But the one thing I wanted to say, was THE BEST RESPONSE EVER was a gentleman who wrote me the most beautiful poem based on my profile that I will forever cherish. Who says the internet is not a romantic place?