The Tale (With a Happy Ending) of the Mudflap Angel

Last week when my insomnia reached fever pitch, I was forced to go out and look for street opiates.  My doctor doesn’t prescribe anything stronger than sleepy time tea and the usual home methods don’t work.  Vodka:  it makes you pass out but then wake up at 2:00 and go for a ride on the tedious thought merry-go-round.  Weed:  similar to vodka except you are up all night making origami animals out of the sheets.

I’m a firm believer if you go out and make your needs be known, somebody somewhere will come up with a solution.

“You don’t need opiates, you need to get laid,” suggested the helpful butcher.  Oh great, he just woke the big sleeping bear.  If the dudes in that shop only knew of how long a run my dry spell has been, they would mercifully tie me up and lock me in a box in their basement and make me their gimp, Pulp Fiction style. Yes, please, I will have the bone-in pork sword special.

I’ve become such a social misfit during the last five years, and I simply won’t call on boys.  You never know if they’re married or not.  And I am insanely shy when it comes to mating rituals.  A couple of years ago, there was dude at the gym I kind of fancied, he was “age appropriate” and he had no ring, so I decided fuck it, he’s not all that, I will smile at him and say hi.  He smiled back and said hi, and it went on like that for a couple of weeks and then we started having friendly banter at the water cooler.  That’s the thing about me, if I can’t make ’em hard, I can make ’em laugh.  The gym has a bar (!) and one day he bought me a beer.  It’s a super casual type place where you can have a drink by yourself and not feel like a trolling weirdo like in Starbucks, where the desperation in the air is as thick as homogenized foam and everyone in there is frantically searching for their soul mate.  Anyway, I took this free pint of Stella as some progress and he was really growing on me.  Even his facial tick was starting not to bother me.

A few days later, I ran into him at Loblaws, with his wife and baby!  We caught each other’s eyes and he looked away quickly, as if he didn’t know me.    Hmmmfffff, you’d think at some point he would have mentioned he had a family, but no, dude was out prowling on collector lane while his wife was at home, changing diapers, lactating, and whatnot.

Maybe there is an iPhone app for my problem.  In gay world, there is one called Grindr that uses GPS as gaydar to let you know when there is a gay in the general area.  You can check out their profile and if you want to meet, you can message them.  Brilliant!  Is there an app similar for straight people?  I wondered.  Yes, there is, said my gay pal, it is called “Look Outside.”  Very funny.

I found one in the app store called OkCupid, but it’s more or less a dating website, not a boner tracker, but I decided to sign up.  Pro Tip:  If you are thinking about joining one of these sites, think about how you are going to write up your profile beforehand as there is nothing more morose and tedious than filling out these things.

I flew by the seat of my pants:

Create a user name:  I did this once before on some other site  6 years ago (for about a day) and called myself “Girl Afraid” and the only one who got it was “Frankly Mr. Shankley” who was a gay and messaged me just to find out if I had heard the new Morrissey album.  I decided on “Mudflapangel” which is the moniker I use when commenting on other blogs and probably best describes my nice and dirty personality.

Make up an opening about yourself:  “I am an insomniac.  I like a joke and a stiff cocktail.  If you pull my toes, I will make you a sandwich.  I like a dude with calloused hands who smells of WD-40 and can swing his dick around like a floppy eel.”

What are you good at:  “I can estimate the correct size of rubber maid container that will fit leftovers without too much extra room or excess spillage.”

What are you doing with your life:  “I write a blog, in fact read it:” (*I figured at least the blog can get some hits even if I can’t)

Message me if:  “You like sushi.”

I gave my real age too, which is old as fuck but I figured these dudes can just take me as I am or go home.  Then I had to answer 800 inane multiple choice questions that started filling me with rage because you had to qualify with “how important it was.”  Like: How do you feel about kittens?  I like them very, very, much and I don’t give a crap if you like them or not, what does any of this have to do with getting some bone? I had answered but a few when I noticed I was already starting to get some messages in my in-box.

“Do you want to meet for coffee?” Was the first one.  No, dude, I have insomnia, the caffeine will keep me up.  Are you not reading what I’m writing down here?

The messages came in chunks of dozens throughout the rest of the day and there were too many to reply to but it is good to know there are men out there with floppy eels in their pants.  One thing that stood out:  There are no single men my own age, they are all married! Surprise! Calling all LOCAs:  You need to know that your husband is on-line trying to pick up chicks like me.

Only one message was by far and away the shining star in the batch and it was from a 25 (!) year old who made me laugh and blush at the same time. I messaged him back, then we started texting, or sexting, then we talked on the phone.  For me, a voice is more important than a penis.  If I don’t like how you sound, I can’t get a lady boner, and I’m looking right at you, David Beckham.  Luckily “Boss” had a voice I could splay for, he also talked really fast like a Gilmore Girl.  Men who talk fast make me think of 1930’s screwball comedies and I am tickled and smitten.

So we arranged a meet up.  This is unorthodox and I know breaks all common sense rules but I have to do things in my comfort zone or I will have diarrhea and barf at the same time.  He has to have drinks on my porch and meet my entire family and neighbours…I know, right?  Crazy.  But it’s okay, I can sense if he is a serial killer if I meet him at Point A and then if I like him, he goes to the second location, Point B, the porch.  The neighbours are all down with this, although one of them thinks I’m a lunatic, and the kids are home with a bunch of friends, all poised for some mass slaughter.  “Mother, he is 25!  You could have given birth to him!”  But I didn’t so shut up.

So in the early evening I went to meet him.  First impression: Brown and muscly, zero body fat, compact, pheromone bomb swaggering  toward me…no serial killer vibe at all, phew.  He is shorter than me but I don’t care, I think tall men are way over-rated.  Do you ever notice how they usually only date really short women? It’s as though to swing a stump around their cocks makes them look mightier.  Short men try harder and have that alpha male compensation thing going on which I think is pure bone power.

We went to the porch.  He brought vodka.  He assimilated like a boss.  The dog loved him and he loved the dog.  We had a couple of drinks, laughed a lot and then what happened next is that although I don’t squirt and tell, I will  let it be known that the sky opened up, and the universe finally got off its lazy ass and threw me a bone.  And it was good.  And I slept, but just a little bit, it was a long night.



5 responses »

  1. Pingback: Timing is Everything According to Cupid | my toronto EH

  2. Pingback: Mastering the Art of Wooing a Lady (OkCupid Edition) | art of modern living

  3. ejnye.

    I used to have a really good psychiatrist, who was as smart as god, and as vulgar as Vulgarius. He said, “‘Andrew, the place of a choosy dick is where? In the cunt of a female dog.” Translated to Canadian English, it means that you have to set your priorities: Either you are a rigteous one, a virtuous lady, who is horny most of the time, or else you will be a despicable house-wrecker, but you sleep well at night and there is a smile on your face; chances are that as a home wrecker, you won’t write blogs, because wtf for.

    You seem to not see this. You chose one path, and are bitter about the advantages of the other.

    You can’t break your cultural heritage; you are unhappy about it. If you broke your cultural heritage, you’d go insane.

    I used to know a lady like that. Dated her for forty years, or thirty,who cares, who is counting.

    This lady was born into a strict, very spiritual Evangelist rural Canadian farming family. Well, duh. Does the bear party in the Vatican.

    Early in her life she had been posed the same ethical dilemma that you face, Krist, and she chose the other path.

    She went insane because of that. She became a true nymphomaniac. She screwed every tom, dick, and harry, and their brothers. Even me, gruss gott im himmel. She and I had sweet love, because I was not possessive. She was. She was insanely jealous. No problem, because she never said no. She was actually cute about it; she woudl say no, then she woudl attend to one or another of her OCD obsessions, then come back and say yes. This was so quaint. The Siren”s song of the potential orgasm.

    I set her up one day, on the advice of my only friend in life, P. P said, and I did, on a long road trip:

    How do you say all the cases of the word dick in German? (She was a German and French high school teacher. My right closing bracket key is no longer working.— She dutifully said, ‘der Dick, den DIck, des Dickes, den Dicken.” I said, keeping close to P’s suggestion, ”My love, this was the first time in your life you declined penis.’ She laughed uproariously for the next forty kilometres.

    This is what I mean. This is the Great Canadian Tragedy: a nation blessed with the highest sex drive this side of the Yenyisey river in Sibreria can’t get their individual rocks off other than in a happy marriage.

    And I ask you: how many happy marriages can you name, honestly and truthfully? Ok, your parents’, your daughters’. Your son is most likely married to a bitch.

    What am I saying. I am trying to say that to let loose, you have to let loose. You have to give up some of your ideals, and until such day that you do, you do not have the right to belly ache about the ties of societal values that bind. Yes, you won’t screw married men, (or married man, as our age will be written up in the annals of sexual anthropology– and you are rightly proud of that. But you must see, which you can’t, that this is an arbitrary sexual taboo, unique to some Western societies. In my country, in the Punjab, rules are different. And in my other country, in Niger, Tchad, Rimsky-Korskakov and the Easter Islands, the rules are different yet again.

    (Every time the first Viking of a boatful of them stepped on a mound of land growing out of the sea, he would holler, ‘I land!!!’ This is the etimological root of the word for that unique geophysical formation.–

    You must … fuck why would you must? Or what? Who am I to say what you must? Yet I insist that you widen your horizon to become more philosophical about this. Decide your priorities and stop whining about them. However, you don’t have to listen to me, what I insist on, it is purely and subjectively my opinion. My path of subjective personal life history is obviously different from yours, from every tom’s dick’s and harry’s, and my values are different too. Maybe not even different willedly, or wantedly but automatically, as dictated (shit, there is the D-word again — by my nature, by my temperament.

    Yes, I was dating a nymph who fuckied all the single men in Toronto. Do i care? Did I care? No. I was with her and as long as I was with her, I was… happy. She was the fool, she could have fucked the married ones, too, pending on jetsomming yet one more of her socially ingrained taboos, and she could have doubled her fun.

    You go with your societies’ arbitrarily imposed value-formation rules, you unconditionally subject yourself to them, you never raise even a lingering wonder if they are right, or sensible, or right and sensible for you; you uncritically accept them, and you drink the bitte tonic of the consequences.

    You need to establish your own rules, or destroy your rules your own way, the way your mind, spirit and body needs them to be, and then you can start your happy years.

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