Tag Archives: dating

31

Mar. ’18

Mastering the Art of Facing Your Fears

Isn’t that just best worst picture ever? It came up on my Facebook newsfeed a few weeks ago (thanks, T! Luv u!) and I saved it to my computer, I don’t what for, but occasionally I stare at it and feel things. It came from the National Geographic website, it’s a king cobra and a reticulated python in a skirmish of survival. The python squeezes the cobra to death as the cobra chomps into the python a lethal injection of its venom. Well done, nature. If that’s not a metaphor for the political climate on your Facebook newsfeed and its battle of wits in any given comment section, I don’t know what is. Anyway, at first after I got over the initial horror of this spectacle, I then became disgusted the all the litter on the pathway. Humans are the foulest beasts and we should be very afraid of each other.

On that note, I’m back on the blog! I’ve accumulated a sufficient amount of anxiety to fuel the fire that drives me to spread my thoughts out on the internet. How would you measure anxiety? On a Richter scale? Mine is hovering around 3.0 -3.9 where shaking of indoor objects may be visible. I would like something to take ending in “pam” but I just might need to go back to yoga. Haha, don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. For many years, I went to Bikram yoga and sweated and near barfed in a room full of almost naked people forced to look at themselves in the mirror while doing the same fucking series of poses in complete unison and utter silence. Keep your toes in line. Do not breathe through your mouth. You know what, Choudhury?  There’s more than one way to swing a cat. But no, there isn’t apparently, it had to be just so. If I heard them say “squeeze like you’re a Japanese Ham Sandwich” one more time, I was going to implode all my hidden rage, disguised under a thin veil of faux serenity, and scream NAMASTE? NAMA-FUCKING-OUTA-HERE BITCHES. So after 6 years I stopped going and never looked back. I’m looking up on google what is a Japanese ham sandwich and urban dictionary has a whole other meaning for it and it doesn’t involve lettuce and tomato, but may or may not involve mayo.  I really hate yoga, it’s soooooo boring, Meditation shmeditation, like what for? I’m alone with my thoughts all day, I know my inside dialogue so well, it doesn’t scare me anymore and it’s certainly no longer interesting. I need interaction. Even though other people scare me.

So I went back to my gym. Baby steps, my friends. I rolled on a ball for 10 minutes, almost getting hit in the head by a big dude swinging a kettle bell, then I trotted over to the inversion machine and hung like a bat for another two minutes. I’ve been a member for 21 years and joined for the fitness but stayed for the beer. What kind of gym has beer, you ask. Well it’s not just a gym, it’s a racquet club. Oooh, you fancy lady, you say. Not really. It’s a basic facility in the feral section of town where the highway ends in the east end of Toronto. You have to have a four wheel drive to make it through into the parking lot. The people are a motley bunch of old and not so old people. The latest is an influx of families with toddler types. There must have been nothing on tv in 2014-15. Let me tell you, helicopter parenting is alive and well in these parts. The best part of the gym, aside from the beer taps, is the hot tub in the ladies’ change room. Its jets are majestic. Fingers and peen in fluid form. Problems include sometimes it’s out of order, and other times it’s filled with toddlers LEARNING TO SWIM IN IT, and a hovering mom standing in front of the knob that turns the jets on. There’s an actual pool for that sort of thing but no, it’s “too cold.” I used to wait for their precious still water sessions to be over but now I just barge in, flick the switch, fling my towel over the rail, and step in all nekky, swinging tiddies and whatnot. Children don’t scare me as long as they keep their comments to themselves.

When I first joined the gym, I was big into group fitness and coming every day because there was a daycare there for my own toddler situation and I got the Me Time that was scarce back then. Also I always had a gym crush. Gym crushes are healthy in the way in that they get you to the gym and putting forth your best Lululemon camel toe. The golden rule of a gym crush is never EVER talk to a gym crush. You must admire from afar even though your first instinct is to find out his name, what car he drives, where he lives, and zodiac sign. My first gym crush was a dude I aptly named Sweaty Man. He always wore a grey tshirt and blue shorts and he would go on the never ending staircase for a full 45 minutes and I would hang back on some reclining leg machine thingy and watch his tshirt get soaked in sweat. It was like watching paint dry but in reverse and instead of a wall, it was a burly dude who looked kind of like Channing Tatum. By the end of his sesh, he would make a giant puddle on the floor that he would bend over and clean it up with a towel. This was the best part of my day. After he would leave for the iron room, I would go to his machine and climb in his balmy after-aura. I could only last about 10 minutes on that machine but that’s equivalent to climbing 25 flights which more than I would do otherwise. I found out at one point he was a cop, not a beat cop but a special Spiderman type cop who had to scale buildings and things, which was kind of hot, right? The girl at the front desk looked up his membership and found out also he was a Taurus like me. Total deal breaker, two sets of horns makes for an awkward tango. Also he left the gym after a few months, I prolly scared the shit out of him.

Other gym crushes were less pheromonal but they still got me motivated to go and try new things. I even did tennis for a while. The outfits were also super fun but in reality, I hated tennis. I used to play round robins with these horrible wretched women who would hate playing with me because I was a novice. “Can she even see?” I overheard one say in the locker room. Yes, bitch, I can see your old as fuck tits are fake and they’ve hardened into two petrified spherules pointing down to your mid-century C-section scar. I am the venomous snake of animal kingdom. As it turns out, when I went to the optometrist, she told me I have difficulty judging distance which would definitely make me a bad tennis player. So there, cunty tennis ladies. But! I didn’t have a tennis crush per se, I had special Friday afternoon one -on-one stroke tutorials, if you will, with the tennis pro. This lasted some months and then I found out he was dating one of the swimming instructors who was like, half my age, which was cool but awkward. But! That whole experience unleashed the cougar in me and I haven’t looked back. Scroll back to 2015 blog posts if you dare, those were the days, my friend. *sighs, rips open a bag of Cheetos*

So! Have been lately thinking it might be time to settle down. Maybe? I’m not sure how things work. Can a person take this into their own hands or do they have to wait for lightening to strike? I’m looking through my ol’ trusty OkCupid dating site and all the age appropriate menfolk I find interesting live far away. Most of them have those types of profiles where they list in the negative, like the ubiquitous: NO DRAMA. Okay, here’s the thing: if you are trying to sell yourself and write stuff like “no drama” that means you have experienced so much drama that you must include it in your profile. And why have you experienced so much drama? RED FLAG! BECAUSE YOU ARE A MOTHERFUCKING GASLIGHTER! That means in all your relationships, you, sir, have been the one who pokes the sweet baby angel bear and manipulate the situation so she seems like the crazy one. I’ve seen that episode of Grey’s Anatomy with the dude from Glee on it. Swipe left, ladies. My daughter thinks I should make a more serious profile but I’m not even going to bother making it normal because what for? I’m a mermaid and they are the same pool of fish. One guy wrote on his list of wants was “hygiene”, wut?  Like what sewage system have you been deep sea diving in, sir? The internet is one scary place. Also I’ve been listening to a lot of serial killer podcasts and now every middle aged dude’s profile picture looks like Ed Gein’s mug shot. Sinister as fuck.

So that brings me back to the gym. One of my single g-friends thinks the gym is not the place to meet men which I vehemently disagree. Take those buds out of your ears, m’lady. Get out of that weird work out zone that has you staring into a monitor while you glide on the elliptical machine. Get off that useless pony and hit the mats and sit on one of those giant ass balls, bounce them titties and swivel your hips. Look around. Make eye contact. Smell the air. Pheromones are out there.  As I write this,  I’m here right now and for the past couple of hours I’ve been looking around and while there is currently one cute dude, seemingly NOT a brow-beaten father of a toddler, I have terrible gaydar. Let me describe him: He has one of those trim beards and fade hair cuts like from Hastings Barbershop (could be straight or gay) and is wearing a tight top with nipple protrusion and sleek pants with high water booty (gay and gay), I know he drives a Mazda hatchback thingy (straight?) what do you think? Never mind, he’s too young anyway, I have to get over that. Probably. Can’t lie. Don’t really want to though. But probably should. I will. No more young uns. Unless a full moon. Then I can haz 2.

Yesterday I saw a dude, who I had never seen before, he was maybe even older than me with slightly disheveled hair, and beard with silvers in it (ooof!  *does a Kiegel*). He had a crumpled, wizened but pleasant face, the kind that doesn’t knock you out at first but grows on you. Maybe his celebrity lookalike is an older Shia LaBeouf if you can imagine. You probably think gross, he’s a dirtball. I like that. MORE FOR ME. Hygiene or lack thereof is not my concern. Definite pheromones. No ring by the way, not that means anything but it’s more promising than if he had a ring on, right?  Key here is not to  elevate him into the status of a god-like gym crush otherwise I’ll be collecting DNA samples and licking them. So!  Game plan: Must be pro-active and approach with caution. Hopefully he is not a Taurus. He could very well be a reticulated python to my king cobra and then what? That would be so hot. Right?

Posted by . Categories: This Charming Man. Tags: , , , , . 2 Comments

22

Sep. ’16

Mastering the Art of Netflix and Reverse Cowgirl

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Winter’s coming, you can tell by the cicadas’ gradual silence, that horny-ass insect whose call of the wild is that long piercing rattle that turns into a solid screech then wanes abruptly before starting up again. Its song is the sound track of lazy summer days. It’s always alarming the first time you hear it in June while you’re having an afternoon siesta with the windows open.  Suddenly drowning out the Magic Wand’s soothing vibrato is that lil inch sized mofo sitting on a branch somewhere blowing out his vocal chords to get an in with some sweet lady bug who seems to be ignoring his ass and yet he keeps it on repeat, getting louder and louder. In-fucking-cessantly. Jesus Christ, Lloyd Dobbler, relax, she hears you, she’s probably just on another branch getting ready, flaying some shit off her wings, making you a cocktail out of tree sap. His relentless shrill becomes white noise as the weeks go on and has a subliminal effect on us all which is why we park our asses on bar patios. We can drink anywhere we want and anywhere inside would be better than outside with all the bugs, not just the cicadas but the other entomological riff raff. And there’s the noise of the traffic and the sun beating down, warming up our drinks and giving us décolleté sunburn that we will regret in the future, but never mind all that. We hoes want to sit outside to see and be seen and smell the pheromones like the animals that we are.

And here I am, the last day of summer, sitting in my room, having just enjoyed a siesta auto-crapuleuse, and I just realized that the cicadas aren’t broadcasting anymore, it’s like they deleted their Tinder accounts! They’ve hooked up, spawned, and moved on because of the intelligence of nature. It’s awe inspiring really.

So yeah. There’s melancholia for the official end of summer and 2016’s special title of the Summer of Perpetual Swamp Ass. I’m not going to miss having to change my underwear 3 times a day and have ditch into a public washroom specifically to swipe a wet nap through my crack but I will miss the cicada’s sexy mojo song. If you follow this blog, and I suggest you scroll back, I’ve been on a fruitful Tinder roll for the past couple of months and what it really means this bad bitch’s Summer of Bone is over but! A new game plan must be implemented. At first I thought I would be happy for a break and to fall into a Netflix coma over the winter with just me and Betty and excessive carbs to replace all the peen but now that I’ve had the pipe administered on a steady basis, I don’t think I can go full-on hermit again. I get antsy if 5 days pass and no gentleman callers grace my doorstep. Be still my quivering quim, I will find you food. for the winter.

People have noticed! My locker buddy at the gym, who has been away at a cottage all summer, saw me last week and said, “My god, you look good! You’re glowing! What are you doing?”

Y’all know me, I’m never on a diet cleanse and I’m drinking to win at some drinking game in my own mind, so I said, “It’s Vitamin D I guess,” and LOL’d in my head.

“Are you taking supplements?” she asked.

“I guess you can say that,” I answered, adjusting my jacked up swollen camel toe in my lycra capris which has been an issue lately. Vitamin D’s downside. Or upside, depending on your point of view.

“How many milligrams?” she asked. Do people actually measure vitamins? This kind of supplement is measured by inches, I wanted to tell her but I didn’t want to make her feel bad because she looked all sunburnt and haggard from her family vacation of oooh look at the sun setting on the lake, how grand, #blessed (read:#boredaf).  I’ll look at it all your lovely photos on Instagram after I absorb my Vitamin D injection and side tossed salad in the comfort of my boudoir. No mosquitos here! Ha, I win for once.

But! I won’t lie. The Tinder game is hard work. Swiping is just the beginning. Boys barely look at profiles and swipe right til they run out of swipes or simply cave in and buy the unlimited swipe option. Girls read all 3 words in the profile, interpret them like a poem, go through all the pictures, and if slightly interested before swiping right, takes the following steps:

Go on Facebook. Take a breath.

Find the common friend and scroll through their friend list and search for the first name, find the dude, click on his profile, nibble on it, then devour it, squeal at how cute he looks with his Movember, save his hottest picture, text it to best friend,  google his ass, see if he has a Linkedin, don’t click on it because he can see who looks at his profile, check out his Instagram, look at pictures with females in them, assess the situation, did he carve that pumpkin with his ex-girlfriened? Peruse who is is following on Instagram, THEN maybe make the emotional judgment based on the data just seen to swipe right.

The real work comes when you make a match (it’s a miracle! It’s totally meant to be!) and he messages you, and then you have to be clever and witty really quickly otherwise the conversation consists of single word back and forths punctuated by emojis. Some people have actually met, gotten married and had babies based on this communication mating ritual. It’s amazing actually but it can be tedious when you’re an old bitch like moi and in your heyday you hooked up in the back of a sugar shack drunk on 2 Molsons and you didn’t even have to say a single word at all, much less have to conjure up the appropriate smiley face. By the way, I always go for the one the tongue hanging out, I think it cuts to the chase, saves them from asking the question : “What are you looking for on here?”

Even if things heat up to witty banter and the exchange of phone numbers, there’s no guarantee of anything at all. A day will pass and you’ll forget who Adam Tinder is even if you were super hot on him the day before. If aliens came down from space and went through my contact list on my phone they would ask who this prolific Tinder clan is, gather them up all for anal probes as they must be out to populate the universe. Adam Tinder may have been cute but along comes Joe Tinder and his beard is bigger but then he turns out slightly crazy by sending you snap chats with that stupid dog filter (are we twelve?) so Frank Tinder comes along to save the day and he seems sane, and hot as fuck literally, so you spend an evening messaging, getting all antsy pants. But here’s the thing:  EVEN IF YOU MAKE AN ACTUAL SOLID JACKSON DATE WITH SOMEONE, THEY STILL MAY GHOST YOU COMPLETELY. One has to have a thick skin in the dating world. We’re all like a bunch eels slithering around a crowded fish tank, trying bang into something but mostly just trying to get away and be alone.

So anyway, the summer has been pretty good for moi. I’ve had some eel slither in. I’ve lost the body count after all the fingers so it’s somewhere in the toes on the first foot. It’s not slutty, it’s that I’ve been condensing what I should have done over the years into as much as I can because I can. Who knew all these 20something guys want to bang old broads? And yes, as a 53 year old woman I am aware I have a  shelf life of an avocado, but at this point I’d rather be some young dude’s quirk/item on a bucket list than some old dude’s sock-sorting, boring-ass “soul mate.” Please.

But! Having said that and being #blessed with young and diverse bone all summer, I know when winter comes, this game has to go into off season. Yes, you can play Tinder on your phone inside but the follow through is going to be a big drag. You know how it is in the depths of January and February, you have to get dressed with coats and hats and go out in the dark in the cold, nothing seems worth it, except for booze. Summer bone is so free and easy, flutter in like a butterfly and do your squirting due diligence and then take off like a sparked firefly in the middle of the night, where you go home and sleep in your own bed. The next day there will be another flower to land on. I’ve adopted the male mentality of casual hookups with aplomb and I’ve never been happier, empowered, or more liberated. And I’m serious, I’m still processing this revelation which I will blather on about in posts to come unless I choke to death on a dick. Could actually happen. Keep reading.

So far, they’ve all been one timers with the exception of one dude who has made me think I need to have a roster of “friends with benefits.” But I so hate that term. That and “no strings attached.” There is nothing worse than going on some dude’s dating profile and they actually state they are looking for an ‘FWB with NSA.” They are living in Delusionville if they think women are going to find that charming and honest. Every woman who reads that thinks: Oh! A challenge! And tragically believes she is going to be a game changer. He hooks up with said cool chick, or so he thinks at first. Then the dumb ass dude actually believes she is on the same page and he whistles and ploughs along, but then by the beginning of the third full moon that they’ve been “casually” banging, she asks where things are going. WHERE THINGS ARE GOING. Ha ha ha ha ha ha, here’s what happens next to the confused bro. He has been Wasting Her Time, tic tock.  Stuff gets said, things go awry, and then he puts his profile back up: “FWB NSA, no drama or game playing tolerated.”  Fucking swamp-ass-wipe dude does not deserve to ever get laid again. Sorry but! It’s ALL a game, motherfucker, grow up and play it with the finesse of a lying bastard. Drama is part and parcel of the fun and getting trapped is the end game. Get used to it, fella, until you find your unicorn who, by the way, is probably a blow up doll. Tool.

But, guess what, the “drama and game playing” (eye roll)  is not for me anymore, that’s a young woman’s objective (babies!) and I am the FWB slash NSA catch IF you have a Stifler’s mom fetish. Most men my age, if they’re out in the dating world, are punch drunk from some crazy pussy for sure, I don’t want to slam the menfolk completely, but they just don’t learn. I actually saw a 48 year old man’s profile state this: “Looking for a FWB for an exclusive relationship. I don’t sleep with other people and I expect you not to either.” What. This guy is just looking for a garden variety monogamous relationship but he’s probably just too cheap to buy drinks or something. I almost felt really bad for him as I swiped left.

My repeat dude holds promise as a potential FWB he checks in with me every day. He’s very athletic, takes charge, and intuitively knows his way around the land that is my battered body and reads my responses like a pro. Getting blood, sweat, and tears out of me requires both talent and experience and for a young dude, he’s going to go far in this world. At one point he made me faint! He’s a genius. Also he’s cool with Betty, my small dog, who trotted in the room, panting  frantically, got all weird and wiggly and jumped on the bed and sat on his face. He didn’t even flinch or seem to care and that is what possibly charmed me the most. I actually can’t tell if he even likes me or not though, but I think he appreciates that I let him watch his stuff on the lap top while I practise deep throating, oy vey, I have a lot to learn. Which by the way, I refuse to believe is an actual thing that can be done for longer than a nano second and a half. It’s all smoke and mirrors of the porn industry! Please tell me I’m right or I’m going to die trying.

So yeah, the plan for the winter is take it a little easier. If repeat dude comes back, if he’s not a flighty summer insect, I’ll try and feed him some carbs maybe and he can slow down and hoist up in that reverse cowgirl position, easy does it, and we can both watch tv and kind of chill(ish) before practise. Fair trade, methinks. In the meantime I’m swiping right on those hairy extra-weight bear type dudes who claim they can cook and cuddle, that would be a nice winter hibernation, #goals, and #hairsinmyteethdontcare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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25

Jan. ’15

Wish You Were Here (David Gilmour, Call Me)

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This reminds me of that Pink Floyd song (remastered)  that goes something like “we’re just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl…” whatever, so sweet, let’s kiss because we’re so cute together. AWWWWWWWWWW.

So I’m back on the OkCupid which is how y’all like me, flailing around, swinging my dick, telling my tales, crying in my beer, blogging the blog of shame. The past few months have been an awesome learning curve for a celibate old hermit lady, I AM NOW FEARLESS cuz really, who cares? YOLO HO, don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Yes, some douche shat on my heart but I got a good story out of it and then some boneheaded (but loveable) dawg randomly peed on it just a tiny bit, enough for it to sting ever so slightly but not enough send me to the cat hospice, no harm done. So back into the fishbowl I go, HOLDING MY BREATH, BITCHES!

This time around, I won’t lie, I’m really kind of jaded, so I’m a cold fish, because that is my self preservation persona. But! I’ve been going on and off the site voraciously all week, so what. I haven’t really written back to anyone new except a 19 year-old who wants to take a road trip with me to Mount Rushmore. He tells me will drive the whole way with my panties in his mouth. And then when we get there, we will bang our brains out. This is like the best message EVER. I think about him in a way that is inappropriate. I could be his mother. This is what David Lynch films are made of, tho, and I am so in. I wish that in real life I have nicer panties, lacy or silky ones, in a soft colour, pink or blue. I think about the long highway drive on Route 16, going south from Rapid City, I’ve mapped it out because my sex fantasies are that meticulously detailed, and I’m sitting on a seat warmer feeling all vulnerable and fishy without my panties and maybe even without pants entirely but I can’t really handle all that, so I’m wearing a skirt. And are my panties really in his mouth the whole way? No, that’s ridiculous…I take them out and fold them into my purse and we can drive and chillax and maybe listen to a podcast. I look over at him and see the peach fuzz on his chin all shiny in the sun. He’s got a zit cluster on his cheek I am DYING to pop all of them. Oy. I’ve made sandwiches in the cooler in the back and I offer him one. He takes the one with ham, havarti, and sliced tomato which ends up dripping on his chin. Juice on his peach fuzz. I reach over and try to wipe it off with a napkin, he winces and holds eyes elbow up, blocking me, STAHP, he says, and wipes his own chin with his bare hand, then smears it on his pants. Really? Now we’re going to have to go a laundromat. I don’t know…this is just not going to work out, is it? Ugh. I really wanted to go to Mount Rushmore. Anyway, I message him back:  “Awww, so cute.” Haven’t heard back. I’m sure I killed his boner with that memaw response. One of my many talents.

SIGH. Scroll on.

Okay, so here’ s the thing: I’ve been on this site so long, I can decipher some of the new buzzwords and some those coded letters that were mysterious to me 6 months ago. Let’s go over some of them, save the rest for another day, I’ve figured the nuances so you don’t have to, ur welcome, kittens:

DTF: “Down to Fuck” Yeah, you know this one from Jersey Shore but my question is: Why would a man send an inaugural message to a woman on a dating sight with just three letters?  How lazy can you possibly be? This could work for some sites but I, personally, have written an eloquent and loquacious erotic profile and all I get is “DTF?” NO. Just no. Much better: “Ur hot, DTF? :p> ”  Now you’re talking my language. Jesus Christ, put a little effort into it. And tongue game because otherwise I’m not interested at all.

FWB: “Friends with Benefits” and yes, that old chestnut from your Melrose Place style rental apartment and you also know from that Justin Timberlake/ Mila Kunis movie, so good because they fall in love in the end WHICH IS THE LAW OF NATURE. But! In real life, this term means different things to different people.  It’s a very ambiguous contract to get into so caveat emptor, hos, is all I have to say. With many single women, for example, they are oftentimes very busy with shift work, raising children, going to night school, taking care of their elderly parents, fighting their parking tickets, et cetera but still have “needs” so a friend with benefits scenario seems ideal because who needs another egg to fry when you have all that bullshit on your plate? Get your handy neighbour to bone you. Done. Or like that episode on Sex and the City, oh shut up; THIS IS MY THESIS, where Carrie calls her fuckbuddy when she is between relationships. These type of dudes are handy for quick comfort and mojo restoration. Personally, I’ve never been able to wrangle one of these breeds of FWB/FB’s and I don’t really want one either as I suspect they are much more work in real life than in theory. Conversely, the type of man who actively seeks a friend with benefits is the kind of dude who is just waiting for someone “better” to come along, a lady who in his immutable dimwitted mind, is worthy of a Real Relationship That Leads To Marriage with him, is basically just his bossy ass mama lookin’ hot in a chicken cutlet bra and skinny stretch jeans and pumps. Will not age well, trust, and neither will he. You are so much better than them, sister, your brain warned you but your vagina caved, don’t beat yourself up over it, move on. It’s very important to note for next time: This man is a social pariah and should be avoided at all costs. Or not, take his wallet.

Polyamory: It’s a whole new world since Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice so it’s not necessarily swinging and key parties per se. Couples are exploring other peoples! With blessings! They make up the rules as they go so you don’t have to. You, the interloper, just do what they say and please don’t blog about it because some of them are affluent members of society which is why they are wearing masks and capes when you enter the front gates with the password, “Fidelio.” I don’t get it either, so we’ll just leave it and hope they make one of those multi-casted movies where everyone’s plot-line intertwines and we get more insight into the lifestyle. I hope Cameron Diaz is in it. I love her.

Sapiosexual:  This is me! I am a sapiosexual! This means you are turned on by the brain. The upside: It’s way less messy, you don’t have to worry about changing your sheets or shaving your pubes, your wit is your fuck meat and your discourse is the boudoir. The downside: Brains are liars and tricksters, and I’m talking about your very own noodle, which will project a whole technicolor fantasy based on no reality whatsoever. As a sapio, you will forever be disappointed, I have learned the hard way, I’M SO DUPED ALL THE TIME, so I am exploring this:

Heteroflexible: I don’t even really think I care about a stupid dick anymore. Even the seemingly nicest dude is an arrogant douche by virtue of the fact he holds the torch. They all have that sense of entitlement engrained in their behaviour even if they have manners, it’s always there. Recently, when I lay myself down for the nightly fap, I no longer fantasize of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson smothering me to death in a single thrust, I think of soft spoken Asian ladies with feathers tickling my ears, OKAY THAT VIETNAMESE EAR CLEANING IS MY THANG, I CAN’T HELP IT. I really, really want a wife.

Meyers Briggs: Yes, this is that personality test that employers make you take to determine if you are a laid-back slacker or a whining worker bee or a fucking asshole with a heart of gold. There are 16 possible combos. Fucking A-type AND Zen people are posting their scores on dating sites now, IT’S THE NEW HOROSCOPE. But even worse because so goddamn boring. People are proud of their scores the same way they are so proud that they are Scorpios. Have you ever noticed that for some reason Scorpios are the most puffed up in all the Zodiac about their sign, “Don’t cross me! I sting, LOL!” Oh fuck off, you pompous, tiny, feckless arachnid, you don’t know from sting, I can fucking make you prolapse your joke gelatinous innards just by staring you down and flaring my nostrils ever so slightly, bull powered. Anyway, Myers Briggs people are even more fanatical. I have perused profiles with details on what INFP is and that they may be looking for an ESTJ or at least a ENTP. OFFS (wait what? Oh For Fucks Sakes), like you didn’t lie all the way through the test because you had pussy and or employment advancement on your mind.

Me personally, if I have to reduce it to four letters, I am looking primarily for a DICK who gets/tolerates me or if that fails,and we all know that’s a long shot, I’ll take a LADY with a feather who will tickle my ear. I don’t care if that sounds weird, it’s the internet and anything goes. Until then OMFG, my internet crush never fails me:

rRPD0EM

Posted by . Categories: okCupid. Tags: , , , , , , , , . 4 Comments

19

Oct. ’14

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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12

Mar. ’13

How To Turn That Frown Into A Raging Boner

magazine6610fbbd27f123650915b7f2e7101dc4303f9d7bPeople are always telling me that men are simple creatures. As a woman, to keep a man in a holding pattern, all you have to do is know how to crack open a beer, make a kickass sandwich, and put out in a timely manner.  Do it in that order and if you are lucky he will stick around for the weekend and grout your tub.  There’s a rule in the “timely manner” aspect of it all.  Ironically, if you put out too early, he thinks you are a big ho and won’t stick around to do some chores. You have to fool him into thinking your vagina is a precious place, like a lush, secret garden that only he knows, or an out of the way fish market in a remote coastal town where the catch of the day is so fresh, it melts in your mouth and doesn’t have that fishy odour.  If your vagina is busy like Six Flags in the summer time, he might want to ride that roller coaster once, but he’s not going back if there is gum on the seat and the floor is sticky from cotton candy vomit.

This is a hard trick for most women and especially those who have birthed out some babies, such as myself.  If I’m going to make a metaphor out of the state of my cooter, I would have to say it’s like an old comfy couch that has been reupholstered in a brand new sleek fabric and is just waiting for someone to park his tired old ass on it and create his own dented imprint on the cushions, I don’t care how he does it. The waiting is driving me crazy but what can you do? All the fish in the sea are gay or married, and all the streetcars have short turned.  THERE IS NO GRINDR APP FOR COUGAR SLUTS…maybe that is this my million dollar idea?

In the meantime, as I wait, I have decided to become proactive but not on internet dating! No way, Jose, it’s too soul crushing.  Every on-line dude says the same thing:  No game playing and no drama.  What does that even mean?  Everybody plays games, it’s how we evolved as majestical text messaging, Grindr app playing beasts.  Your parents met, played the game of courtship, and you were born.  Your mom had to pretend she wasn’t interested in her super cool crush so he would think she was a challenge and he would ask her to the prom…But she was so good at being aloof, he asked another girl, who was the town trollop and she ended up pregnant with had some other baby, not you.  Your mom got really jealous so she ended up going out with her best guy buddy, Duckie, and although he was friend zone material, a brilliant game was being played and she fell in love with him anyway and they got married.  And yes, that is the way “Pretty in Pink” should have played out but it didn’t because test audiences didn’t like it!  But that’s the way these stories happen in real life for everyone else.  It’s all just a big game.  And the drama is the icing on the cake.  Without the drama, there are no boners, haven’t men figured this out yet?

So I’ve been telling everyone I know to set me up with their local divorced dad-type, I think I need my male counterpart so we can understand each other’s trials and tribz.  The problem is that there are two kinds of divorced dudes:  The first kind has not even let the ink dry on the divorce papers as he has already put the light on his cab and has hooked up with the first passenger that comes along who he is going to spend eternity with and get his vasectomy reversed for, etc.  He will jump through hoops in order to remarry because he can’t handle being alone.  This is not the type guy I would like to have sitting on my brand new reupholstered couch, if I was actually fast enough to catch one, he is too needy….and probably a premature ejaculator…no.

Then there is another kind of divorced dad who is a whole other animal, all full complexities and emotional issues. All the damages come out after the age of forty.  Which I don’t have a problem with as I am all about the fascinating case studies. There is nothing simple about these guys, they are up and down drama kings, all in desperate need of therapy.

Case Study #1:  I have a Facebook friend who is not a contender for my comfy couch because he doesn’t know I exist as he is one of those 5,000 friend hoarder-types. He would never bother reading this blog because he is too busy blathering on about himself…yes, I know I blather about myself BUT I READ ALL YOUR STATUSES AND POSTS, whatevs, let me have my little blog.  This dude SHOULD have a blog because he writes a diary as a status. Most of the time he is pining away for his ex-wife and children, which would be sort of noble except that she is in therapy for the fact that she has 8 kids. She hates him, she was probably in an oxytocin haze for their whole marriage while they had all those kids and now she no doubt prolapses when she sneezes. And all this guy wants is to have her back and plant more seeds in her bomb blasted womb.  He’s like a honey badger, just plowing away wherever he wants, and if she doesn’t take him back, he’s going to find himself a nice girl and make even more babies.  The only thing I will say is that there are not enough gingers on the planet and I do love a ginger so maybe he is doing a good deed for the greater good of diverse world population.

But seriously, this is a dude without any self-actualization at all.  This guy will pine away forever until he cures his misogyny.  IT’S 2013, YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO KEEP A WOMAN BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT ANYMORE.  Grow up, read a self-help book, and get a haircut. And a vasectomy.

Case Study #2:  I have some friends who heard my plea and invited me over to their house recently for drinks on a casual setup with their newly divorced dad friend.  This divorced dad’s ex-wife has a blog (!) and I perused it before I met him.  This was not one of those blogs that make me jealous with its amazing content because it was crappy, boring stories of children and hair.  I’m not even kidding, it was pictures of her kids getting haircuts but for some reason every post had hundreds of comments, seriously really? That pisses me off seeing dumbass blogs with loads of traffic for no good reason. When I met him, I thought he was very handsome and! he wore plaid shirt which is one of my fetishes left over from Grade 9.  But! All he talked about was his ex-wife.  What a bitch she was. Drinky, drinky, drinky:  “Selfish whore.”  More drinkies:  “What a heinous cunt.”  I told him I saw her blog and said it was kind of silly…I thought we were having a bonfire-style bitchfest where we could all throw a log in the fire, but no, he ripped me a new one for being disrespectful of her journalistic integrity, or something to that effect.

Talk about a whacked out attachment disorder.  You just know he stalks her on the Facebook and in her driveway.  There will be no moving on until a certain someone realizes you can’t find happiness in another person.  In order to move on, one needs to strategize a game plan and this guy is just too addicted to his own misery.  Until then, I probably would let him on my couch, if he could get his mind off his ex-wife for twenty minutes or so, something about him protecting her shitty blog got me all hot and bothered, he’s got some spunk in him.   I ❤ spunk.

 

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