Tag Archives: sex

Sluts, Studs, and Straightjacket Sexuality – Post over at 21st Century Relationships

Check out this blog post over at 21st Century Relationships:

Sluts, Studs, and Straightjacket Sexuality

Always so great to hear a male perspective that does not include Red Pill/Hamster Wheel/PUA bullshit.  Nathan is one of my favorite bloggers out there, male or female and always has insightful, things that make you go hmmm type things to say.


The Pump and Dump – Worst Thing EVER or Blessing in Disguise?

Step away from the phone. It's not gonna ring.

Based on what I’m reading out there in the blogosphere and what I’m hearing from my lady friends, getting pumped and dumped is the very worst thing that can happen to a woman.  What is a pump and dump you ask?  Well, it’s when a lady and a gentleman go out on a date (or two, or three or however many it takes) and get down to the sexy time and then the gentleman fails to call the lady back.  Or fades out.  They never see each other again, no more sexy time happens and the lady runs to her friends/the internet to cry FOUL.

Obviously this happens to men as well.  I am ashamed to admit that I am guilty of perpetrating a few pump and dumps in my time.  (Why?  Well that’s a whole post on its own.  I’ll give you a hint:  It rhymes with “Rad Mex”).  It’s not something I’m proud of because EVERYONE deserves at least the courtesy of a “thanks, but no thanks” text/call.  However I don’t see a lot of men, either online or in real-life, complaining quite as vocally as women do about this phenomenon.  So this post is mostly aimed at the ladies.

So ladies – I’ll let you in on something.  This is so, SO far from the worst thing that can happen to you.  I don’t need to go into all of the various disasters and calamities that life throws our way, but in the grand scheme of things, having someone not call you back after sex is just not a big deal.  In fact, it’s a GOOD thing.  A good thing?  What?  No I’m not high.  Lemme explain…

This guy did you a FAVOR.  He did you a huge solid.  Because this was not the dude for you.  And aren’t you glad that you found this out early rather than 6 months down the line when you’ve become all attached and lovey-dovey with him?  You are now free to roam about the country to seek another victim.  Uh…man.  Of course I meant man.

It doesn’t even really matter WHY he never called back.  He just didn’t.  And that is perfectly OK.  You can’t control the actions of others.  There is no strategy, no trickery or magic you can use to make the dude call you back.  In fact you don’t WANT a call back, not from someone who is not the right fit for you!

What you can, and should do (yes I am going to tell you what to do) is ask yourself one question – WHY am I so upset about this?   Why is this person, that you have known for maybe a couple of weeks, that has invested NOTHING in you, having such a profound effect on you?  Why are you letting this virtual stranger dictate the way you feel about yourself and your worth as a human being?  STOP.  You don’t have to do this to yourself.  Be disappointed.  Joke around with your friends, complain a little bit.  But then realize that you are mourning the loss of something that was never there. This guy was never real.  He owes you nothing.  But guess what – you don’t owe him anything either!  Not a thought, not a word, not a text.  Forget closure.  His not calling back is all the closure you need.


To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before…

Today I am feeling nostalgic.  I want to look back at the  fine young gentleman that I spent time with over the past year-and-a-half.  You were all so very lovely and I will remember each and every one of you fondly.  This is my love letter to all of you.  

The French Boy

You taught me exactly what NOT to put  up with in a relationship, and how to stand up for myself and what I need.  Self-respect was a stranger to me the entire time we were together but I have found it once again by remembering how low I felt when I was with you.  You taught me the importance of letting go when something is not working, of paying attention when one’s words and actions contradict each other, of honoring the little voice inside that is screaming that things just ain’t right.

However, there was also so much good that came out my time with you.  Being with you showed me that I have the capacity to open up and love someone, even if I didn’t choose very wisely when I gave that love to you.  Your feedback that I was too cool, too detached and too busy protecting myself was spot-on.  Allowing myself to be vulnerable, to let a man know how I’m feeling  has brought me to the wonderful, peaceful place I find myself in today.

You are truly how I got my groove back!  You reminded me that I wasn’t just a mom – I was a woman.  A fucking sexy one.

The Body

I imagine that this is what you look like right now

While our time together was cut short by the fact that you accidentally got your ex-girlfriend pregnant right before we met, I still enjoyed you.  Sneaking into your house, where you lived with your parents was exhilarating and made me feel like I was back in high school again.  You had a rockin’ ass body and I hope you’re enjoying fatherhood!

Soldier Boy

God Bless the USA!

Supporting the troops took on a whole new meaning when you allowed me to buy you several Jack and Cokes and then take you home for a 21-gun salute.  I learned more about the war in Afghanistan and Iraq from spending a few nights with you than I did from reading countless news articles over the years.  I saw the pain and the haunted look in your eyes when you spoke about your time there, a pain I knew existed in abstract but never saw so up-close.  You were also the first Republican I ever went on a date with.  You taught me that I can never, ever again go on a date with a Republican.  I thank you for your service, both at home an abroad.  You made me feel so very patriotic and proud of the fine young men and women representing us around the world.

Big C (and Not-So-Little C)

I think I will miss you most of all.  Your charm, your wit and way with words, your amazing cat, your amateur gangster rap (which was actually quite good) and of course, the ridiculously mind-altering sex.  Had you been a few years older, I would have seriously considered trying to turn our once-a-month marathon sessions into something more.  You are more talented that you realize, and it makes me more than a little sad to know that we have eaten our last basket of french fries at 1 o’clock in the morning.  You taught me that casual does not have to be disconnected and disrespectful.  You put the “Friends” in Friends with Benefits.  But please – do not EVER grow back that horrific mustache.  That thing almost prevented you from getting laid once and it will prevent you from getting laid in the future. Trust.

Baby C

I will never look at my backseat the same way

Thank you for giving me the experience of being aggressively pursued.  Nobody in the history of all the men I’ve known has come  at me with as much swagger, confidence and persistence as you.   No matter how many times I told you that you were “too young” for me, you wouldn’t give up and you made a great case for the old adage that age really doesn’t matter.  You showed me that a mini-van, although dowdy on the outside, can be turned into a first-class shag-wagon with the flip of a switch.  You’ve got some serious game little man.  Now go forth into the wilderness and use it!

The Last Boy (for the foreseeable future, that is)

Hope it's not too awkward running into each other in the futureThank you for giving me the chance to be the pursuer and to fully live out the cougar fantasy.  You resisted me for months and right when I was about to give up, you finally gave in to my advances.  The way you looked at me – a mixture of fear, fascination and lust, was intoxicating.  Never have I felt so powerful, so in control.  You handled me in bed with a skill and tenderness that was astounding for someone as young as you are.  I felt like a total goddess in your hands!  Our time together was short, and I bet you’re kicking yourself for not surrendering to my many attempts at seduction much sooner than you did.  You’re gorgeous, sweet, and musically gifted.  I’m so very glad that you were my last stop on the cougar express.  What a fantastic way to close out this chapter in my life!  I know we’ll be running into each other many times in the future, but I have no doubt that you will handle things with maturity and respect.


The Reluctant Monogamist

This looks nice and all, but is this really the ONLY option?

My last foray into normal, society-approved monogamy ran concurrently with the 2010 baseball playoffs, in which my SF Giants were, at long last, victorious in the World Series.  For those that don’t feel like doing the math, this means that my last traditional, exclusive relationship lasted all of 6 weeks.  It happened in the usual way – girl sees cute boy in bar, goes up to him and tells him he looks like Matt Damon.  Boy tells girl she looks like Christina Ricci and buys her a few drinks.  They end up back at boy’s apartment where, shirtless (because he works out obsessively and wants to show it off), he serenades her with alternative music from the 90’s with his beat-up but gorgeous acoustic guitar while she lounges on a balance ball in just her underwear until the wee hours of the morning.   Sex happens.  Several times.  Boy drops girl off at the front door of her hotel, so she doesn’t have to participate in a pre-dawn walk of shame and promises to call.  Girl is indifferent because while the sex was fairly good, the 9-11 conspiracy theories were not.

A mere 6 months had passed since the end of my decade-long marriage and I had absolutely no intention of getting into a relationship.  Turns out, he was in the same boat.  Just a few months out of a serious relationship in which he had been living with someone.  This thing had rebound written all over it – for both of us.  So why, in the name off all that is holy, did I say yes when he proposed we start seeing each other exclusively?  Looking back I realize the following:

  • He asked the question while were laying in bed, having just completed the pole vaulting portion of that evening’s bedroom Olympics.  I was in a good mood, full of hormones and dopamine and all kinds of nice orgasm-y feelings.
  • We had only been dating a week or two.  I was caught completely off-guard and thought for sure that he wouldn’t bring it up that quickly.  And I had no plans to have the DTR talk.
  • It was so damn nice to have someone in my life again, even if I felt the timing was off and that there were things about him that gave me pause.

So when he asked me if I was seeing anyone else, I lied and said no.  Be honest dear reader – you would have done the same thing!  Who the hell wants to tell the sweet, naked man lying next to them that less than 24 hours ago some other dude had zambonied the ice rink?  You know, the one that is telling you how amazing you are and that he doesn’t have any desire to see anyone else?  We became a couple right then and there.  Yet there was so much reluctance in my acceptance of his offer.

The legitimacy of having a significant other that is conferred upon you by society is a heady thing.  I was wrestling with feelings of guilt, shame and just plain feeling like a failure from my marriage breaking apart and this was an easy way to say “see – I’m not a loser after all!”  This made all those bad feelings go away.  The cute little back-and-forth messages that we posted on each other’s Facebook walls, the good morning email that was always waiting for me when I got to work, the goodnight call if I wasn’t staying at his place, the little shelf that he cleared out for my stuff – all of this felt so familiar and affirming.

Let me out!

Not so nice – the suffocating, frantic feeling that I was trapped.  TRAPPED!  The one weekend during our short relationship that we didn’t spend together (he went out-of-town), I literally had to have a girlfriend cock block me when we went out that night.  She had to confiscate my phone so I didn’t text the French Boy or the Tortured Artist.  If she found me at the bar talking to a man, she would come right up between us and pull me away.  She did all of this at my behest because I just didn’t trust myself not to cheat.  I didn’t even have the balls to tell the others that I was seeing someone, you know, just in case.  I knew there was something terribly wrong.  I knew that he was not a good match for me and I also knew that I didn’t want to be in a relationship.

He dropped the bomb on me right after the World Series ended.  It’s almost as if we were under some kind of spell, and once all the excitement was over, the fog was lifted.  That and his ex-girlfriend had called him to “congratulate” him on the win.  I wasn’t with him that night.  Not that it would have mattered.  The call would have come at some point and it would have made him pause and think about what he was doing.

There were so many reasons that he was wrong for me.  He was an addict that had a few years prior, lost everything due to his addiction.  He had anger issues and would punch and throw things.  He regularly trashed his ex-girlfriend.  He was a lawyer.  All of these things and more were revealed to me in the short time we were together.  But despite all this, I was still devastated when the call came.  I had seen it coming.  Sensed him pulling away.  It didn’t make the blow any easier to take.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks and I was feeling mostly OK about things.  Never gave in to the temptation to send just one little text, or email.  Didn’t check his Facebook page or check if he was on IM.  Just when I started to feel balanced again, he emailed me to invite me out to dinner and a show.  Just as friends.  Stupidly (and I knew it at the time) I agreed.  That’s when the flirty drunk texts started.  Again, stupidly, I played along.  Dinner turned into sex of course.  Only this time, I made it clear that I had the right to date other guys and vice versa.  He agreed.  What he didn’t know is that I already was.

The next month or so I spent chasing the dragon, trying to get back to that high I experienced when we first met.  Trying to get the cute good morning emails started again.  Trying to get my stuff back on that shelf.  All the while I’m banging the French Boy again.  Everything came to a head one night when he, drunk again and alone  (which I think is probably a terrible idea for someone with a past addiction to drugs) he texts me, telling me to come over.  I tried to be discreet, really I did.  But he wouldn’t let up.  I finally had to be blunt with him.  “I am at another man’s apartment right now.  I can’t come over.” He was furious.  I never heard from him again.

I have since come to realize that I had always been in relationships for the wrong reasons, not just this one.  For validation.  For status.  For feeling like I was “worth” something.  I would completely give up myself, ignore what I needed, and accept any and all faults in the other person just to keep that precious thing alive.  No wonder when around the 2 year mark (which seems to be the magic point in time when all of my relationships start to fail) I would start to feel restless, and resentful and unhappy.  You can’t pretend forever. You can’t sit by with your needs un-met and expect a relationship to last.

It’s not easy to navigate in a world that values and supports a lifestyle that hasn’t ever worked for you.  So I have two

You can get with this...or you can get with that

choices – 1) Figure out how to operate within the existing system of monogamy in a way that  doesn’t completely crush my spirit and make me feel trapped or 2) Define my own way of being –  of loving and living that allows me to be myself.  And no, I don’t mean allows me to fuck whoever I want at the expense of someone else’s feelings.  The past 2 years has been my attempt at following the 2nd path, the one where there is no guidebook, no support from society at large, no “rules”.  As you have read, I’ve stumbled along this path.  I’ve gotten hurt.  I’m sure I have hurt others, although it was never my intention.  But I just don’t know if I can see myself taking that time-worn and well-traveled route.  Can’t see myself stepping in line again and giving up all that makes me unique just so that I don’t make people uncomfortable.

For now, as I encounter situations that Emily Post certainly can’t help me with, I stumble along, always trying to behave ethically and always trying to be up-front with the men that share my time and space with me.  And maybe – just maybe, I can find someone who understands me and shares my worldview.  I know it won’t be easy.  But I’ll continue to search.  And have amazing, awesome sexy experiences while I do.


Shit or Get Off the Pot

This cat has clearly chosen the "shit" option. I respect that.

This is one of my mother’s favorite sayings.  Along with “Life isn’t fair” and “If you wear too much lipstick your lips will fall off” (hey – they can’t all be gems) I heard this a lot growing up.  It means, in short, be decisive.  When faced with too many options, I get anxious and completely indecisive.  But what do you do with someone who, when faced with only 1 option, still can’t pull the trigger?

I met Mr. Indecisive off of OK Cupid earlier this year.  He came at me pretty hard with the whole “hey sexy” thing, but I was fairly certain, based on the type of humor in his profile, that he was being ironic/funny.  We had a pretty fantastic first date.  I took him to my favorite bar downtown and we furiously made out while 90’s hip-hop played in the background (like you are so in control of yourself that you don’t automatically make out with whoever you’re with when Hypnotize comes on).  Fast-forward a few hours and we’re doing pretty much everything you can do while horizontal and in an alley doorway.  Date 2 and we’re off to the races and it’s GOOD.  Great technique and as ironic as it seems now – totally decisive.  In the bedroom this man was so take-charge. Outside of the bedroom – eh, not so much.

What followed was a 2 month exercise in frustration and futility.  We were in contact every day, either by text or IM or the occasional phone call.  We saw each other once or twice a week.  Sounds promising, right? Wrong.  Although he was the one to initiate most of the contact, I was the one that had to set up all the dates/times we would get together.  And by get together I mean bang.  Only twice in the 2 months we dated did we see the outside of his bedroom, and one of those times was the bar/alley on our first date.  Getting him to go out to dinner with me that one time was no easy task.  It was like negotiating with someone in another language, without the benefit of a translator.  I may have even come out and said “we are going to dinner before we fuck” or something like that.  When I invited him out to watch me perform at a bar just 3 blocks from his house, he “cancelled” at the last-minute due to illness (he later confessed that he wasn’t really sick).  Any and all attempts that I made to move this thing outside of those 4 walls was summarily shut down.

Well at least her robot cuddles!

Despite a few flashes of jealousy and ham-handed attempts at tenderness, it was pretty clear that this thing was just about sex for him.  I didn’t mind that too terribly, because the sex freaking rocked the casbah.  But there was something really robotic about this dude.  I wondered if he had feelings.  Was I fucking the terminator?  Was he agoraphobic?  Either way, the orgasms were plentiful, he seemed to be all about my pleasure even if it meant he didn’t get off, and he was always down for the last-minute booty call (hell – if parking was easier in his neighborhood, I might still be fucking him).

But after 2 months of playing cruise ship director and setting everything up EVERY SINGLE TIME, I started getting bored.  Dear reader, you know how much I delight in the pleasures of the flesh, but even a depraved sex maniac such as myself likes to get out into the world every once in a while and see a movie, eat a meal, look at some art, make fun of strangers in the street, etc. etc. Add in the fact that he was so closed off I wasn’t sure he had human emotion and his outright admission that he was “emotionally unavailable” and I was ready to bail.  For as awesome as the dicking was, I like my casual sex with a side of humanity.  I decided to release him back into the wild.

I did something that I had never, ever attempted with a man – I was honest.  Shocking, I know.  But when the words “This just isn’t enough for me” left my lips something very strange happened.  Like when the Grinch’s heart grew 2 (or was it 3) sizes, this dude turned into Mr. Emo.  We then had full-on, emotionally connected yet still dirty (come on, I still like what I like) sex.  I left feeling a bit confused.  Who the hell did I just fuck and where did he keep the robot in that tiny apartment?  But still, I was happy with my decision to end it and sincerely hoped that I had made a good friend for life. After all, I already had a new victim…er…man in my sight.

Truth be told, I never really stopped dating other dudes while we were seeing each other so I was able to fill up all my new free time with no problem.  And as friends do, he started asking me about how my love life was going.  But as friends usually don’t do, he got crazy jealous and demanded I stop talking about my love life.  I then got accused of being insensitive to his feelings.  WTF?

The next week or two he spent texting me, IM’ing me, calling me to talk about things, to see if we could start over, to give him another chance.  I’ll be honest – I was conflicted.  The only reason I let him go was because he seemed so uninterested in getting to know me, so closed-off.  And the whole never-leave-the-house thing.  Now here he was, being all sensitive and shit and talking about his feelings and about how much he wanted to be with me.  And I couldn’t stop thinking about the sex.  The awesome, awesome, sex.  So I made him a deal.  I told him I’d give him another chance and that we could start at square one and go out on dates and see what happens.  One little caveat – no sex.  No, it’s wasn’t meant to be a shit test.  I wasn’t sure that I felt anything for him beyond sex either, so I wanted to take that out of the equation.  Plus I didn’t trust that this change of heart was sincere.  The timing was pretty suspect, no?

Well as soon as I said “no sex” and agreed to give him another chance, we have landed right where we started.  Me as cruise ship director.  Well guess what?  The Love Boat has left the dock and no matter how fast he swims, he’ll never catch it.  Wait – is that delicious 23-year old I see in the Karaoke Lounge?  Hold my drink for me, I’m going in…


When a married man cheats, is the “other woman” more to blame than he is?

I will start of by answering my own question – no.  100% NO.  Unless, of course the lady in question tied him up against his will and forced him to hide the salami in her…pantry.  In which case, that’s just plain-old rape and not cheating.  But I digress…

Bizarre Love Triangle

The other night I was watching the news with my Mom and counting down the minutes until Jeopardy started (because I kick her ass EVERY TIME) when the nightly Herman Cain story came on.  For those that have been living in a cave, or, you know, have an actual life, Herman Cain is one of the long-shot candidates vying for the Republican nomination for President.  He has had some, er, lady troubles as of late of the non-consensual kind but it had recently been discovered that he carried on a 13-year relationship that may or may not have included sex (yeah, right.  And I have a lovely bridge to sell you) but did include meals, cash, and stays at posh hotels.  Putting aside the fact that we don’t really know what happened (and my god, I don’t even want to imagine these two naked) and that we have no idea what kind of marriage/arrangement he has with his wife, it appears to be another case of a married man cheating.

When a picture of the lady in question flashed on the screen, Moms practically spat. “Look at her. She is SO disgusting.”

After a beat, I responded “Well, so is he.”

“But,” she sputtered “she’s MORE disgusting.  Because she knew he was married.”

Unable to wrap my mind around this logic, I pointed out the obvious – that he knew he was married too.  And I’m pretty sure he was aware of that fact long before she was.  Add to it that they are both consenting adults that carried on a relationship for over a decade and I fail to see how either one of them could bear more of the blame than the other. Now, I’ve known Moms for well, my entire life and I understand her better than anyone so it was no surprise that she would, in effect, place a disproportionate amount of blame on the woman vs. the man in this situation.

But her reaction isn’t really all that different from I suspect a good number of women’s reactions would be.  Have you

This makes me sad to be a girl

ever seen Cheaters, or Maury, or Jerry Springer?  Plenty of scorn is heaped upon the man who cheated but how many times have the women gone after (literally and figuratively) the other woman?  Pulling hair, calling her a cunt and home wrecker (is there even a male equivalent to that term?), blasting her for not staying away from her man all while he sits there, sheepish and in some cases enjoying himself.  I’ve never seen a study done on this subject in particular, but I’d be willing to bet my firstborn (and believe me, she is far too helpful at this age for me to part with her easily) that on the whole, more blame is put upon the other woman.

This misguided notion that women “should know better” and that men “just can’t help themselves” is shitty on so many levels and is, I think, very insulting towards men.  They are just not capable of being adults and making good decisions.  They are just powerless when faced with pussy.  Poor dears – how do they get anything done surrounded by all of those boobies? Really people, this is just another form of slut-shaming and you know how I feel about that!

To my knowledge, I’ve only been cheated on once by my high school boyfriend and it wasn’t exactly a warm and fuzzy feeling.  (I dumped him, promptly and without argument.  Sigh – sometimes I wish I had that uncompromising you-fuck-me-over-and-you’re-gone attitude back in my life). However, I’ve seen first hand the devastation and fallout that occurs when adultery tears through a marriage.  So I don’t minimize that this is a serious issue.  But let’s not kid ourselves and think that keeping your man away from other sexy, sexy ladies is going to keep him from taking the old skin boat to tuna town.  And if he does let her ride the bologna pony, it’s a CHOICE that he made.  He’s a shithead.  She’s a shithead. End of story.


Why I Want A Ghost Boyfriend

Have you been watching American Horror Story? NO?  Go on.  I’ll wait.  A very naked Dylan McDermott rubbing one out and then sobbing?  A mysteriously sexy and murderous man in a head-to-toe vinyl gimp suit?  Delicious housekeeper in french maid outfit that will make sure all your needs are attended to?  This show is dark, disturbing and fucking sexy, in all the right (and wrong) ways.  But what does it for me is – SPOILER ALERT – Tate, the ghost boyfriend of the teenage daughter Violet.

So what if he's technically dead and a mass-murderer? Total hotness...

Once you get past the fact that he’s dead and all I think that little Violet is on to something here.  Having a ghost boyfriend could totally rule!  Consider the following:

  • He can’t leave the house so you always know where he is. Except on Halloween.  Although, you will get chased by the ghosts of all those kids he executed Columbine-style in the library so that’s a bit of a bummer.  So much for the romantic beach bonfire he promised you!
  • When some local tweakers pull a combination home-invasion/murder re-enactment at your house, your ghost boyfriend will be there to back your shit up!  Then he and the ghost-maid will clean up and dispose of the bodies for you.
  • While you’re away at school (because, you know, you’re all alive and have to go do shit) he will leave sweet ghostly “I Love You” messages on your blackboard.
  • Cheating is probably not a great likelihood because, as Chris Rock so astutely said, you are only as faithful as your options.  Unless he suddenly develops a taste for gimp suits or the maid gets REALLY bored, you won’t have to worry.  **Update – wrong about this one.  Ghost boyfriend is a total cheater.  Like the kind that rapes your mom.  Not cool ghost boyfriend.**
  • Condoms?  Who needs ’em.  Ghost boyfriend is most likely shooting blanks.  Plus, it’s not likely that he can pass along any STD’s, right?  **Update – wrong about this one too.  Damn ghost boyfriend – why’d you have to go and knock-up my mom?**
  • He is stuck in 1994 when music totally ruled.  He will listen to Nirvana and Pearl Jam with you non-ironically and without nostalgia.
  • That bitch at your high school that thinks she’s all that and wants to bully you for smoking on campus and being all cool and different?  You can lure her to your basement with promises of free coke and your ghost boyfriend will join forces with the mutant ghost-baby that the abortion doctor frankensteined in the 20’s and fuck her shit up.  Then she will be scarred for life and become your new bestie!

So sorry boys – my Wednesday nights are taken by Tate, my ghost boyfriend and the most awesome show on TV right now!


Karma’s a Bitch – and I got Her on Speed Dial

We’ve all got our “man done me wrong” stories.  But sometimes there’s a happy ending.  No, not for him (after all, he didn’t get the girl, did he?) but for you. Because who doesn’t love to indulge in just a wee bit of Schadenfreude from time to time?  Or constantly.

I recently got back in touch with the French Boy.  You know, the one that was the impetus for this sad piece of blog-posting.  Enough time had gone by that I felt mostly over it and was amenable to a quick “what’s new in your life chat.”  He was starting to be just restless enough in his new relationship to do a quick market check.  You know – where you hit up old flames and fuck buddies and the like to see if they are still in the market to meet and revisit old times again.  And of course by “revisit old times” I mean bang.

Never EVER attempt to peel your own banana.

My what’s new included being laid off from my old job, finding a new one and preparing to move myself, my children and all of my shit back to my childhood home.  His included a broken frenulum.  (A what?  Whatever you do DO NOT GOOGLE IMAGE THIS.  You will see things that cannot be unseen.  A text-based description is more than enough in this case.)  Yes folks, he had broken his dick.  While dry humping the girl who he had left me for.  The girl who was, as he described to me in his own words, so much like me.  Only younger.  And with bigger tits.  Obviously, this was not well received at the time.  If I had known what a frenulum was back then, I may have attempted to break it right then and there.  Luckily, I had the universe on my side to do the…procedure for me.

I am only slightly ashamed to admit that as soon as I understood the nature of his injury and the manner in which he had sustained it, I laughed.  Right there on the phone. I laughed at this poor boy’s frustration. The injury to his most prized possession.  And the fact that he had to abstain from any kind of sexual activity for 1-2 weeks while it healed.  The more he explained things to me, the harder I laughed.  Harder than the time that he hit himself in the balls with my leather belt.  (At least that injury was sustained while he was doing something for my benefit.  That is DEFINITELY another blog post – the dangers of amateur S&M.)

Need more proof that the universe is indeed on my side?  My soon-to-be-ex husband recently came down with a rather severe case of kidney stones.  Or, as I have re-named them, Karma stones.  Dozens of them, just chilling in there, taking their sweet little time passing through.  Each of them a miniature ginsu-weilding ninja of pain and despair leisurely making its way through the urethra.  From what I understand, this is an indescribable pain like no other and the only thing a man can experience that comes even close to childbirth.  Because this man is the father of my two precious children, I gave him the benefit of waiting until after he was out of earshot to laugh.  Then I called all of my friends and had way more fun than should be legal at his expense.

The moral of this story – beware men of the Greater Bay Area.  You fuck with me and my very best friend Karma will be along shortly to smite you.  Probably in the dick.  Because apparently that’s how she rolls.


The Bad Date Chronicles – In the Ghetto

Not so charming by day. Scary as F@#ck by night.

I met “Cameron” on the dating site HowAboutWe (which I recommend you check out.  A pretty interesting concept, though I struck out 2 for 2 on it).  His profile was sparse, even by HowAboutWe standards and his date idea – “go to a bar and have a drink” was pretty uninspired.  But I had some time to fill and there was something attractive about his picture.  I responded and we were able to set something up pretty quickly.  We met at a pretty nifty little bar just on the edge of one of San Francisco’s most notorious neighborhoods (or, as someone who doesn’t want to admit to living there would say, “The Theater District”).  He was about 15 minutes late, which, in retrospect is ridiculous as he lived just a few blocks away, but I didn’t mind as there was a pretty good Giants game on and I made friends with the girls next to me.  At one point, they told me that they were rooting for this guy not to show up so that I could just hang out with them all night.  If only the night had taken that turn instead of the one that had me strolling the streets of the ghetto at 1 in the morning.

Once he arrived, and my new friends expressed their disappointment, me and my tall, handsome and oh-so-doable date settled in for a couple of cocktails (I now have a strict 2 drink maximum). It took me very little time to determine that this guy had no long-term dating potential (I am so over the underemployed musician thing after being married to one for over 10 years) but he was just too pretty to pass up.  Besides, The French Boy had been out-of-town for nearly a month and I was definitely overdue for some action.  Once the bill was squared away (a bill that he graciously paid, despite my protestations) I looked him straight in the eye and said that we should go back to his place.  Not one to refuse such a request from a lady, he escorted me a few blocks through the very heart of the beast until we got to his apartment.

We spent the next hour quite enjoyably engaged in adult-type activities until it was time for me to get home.  I was a bit miffed that he didn’t offer to walk me the couple of blocks to the train station, but didn’t really make an issue of it.  I’m a big girl, after all and although I wasn’t super excited about stepping over junkies and avoiding being eaten alive by a homeless man’s pit bull, I made it to the train without incident.

I was surprised the next day to receive a text from my ghetto-licious friend expressing his satisfaction and gratitude and asking when we might see each other again.  I replied that I was busy for the coming week but would get back to him.  In the week that followed, he stayed in contact texting every couple of days.  He even sent a rather awkwardly adorable one saying that if I wanted to spend the night and not have to rush out of there to catch the last train out of the city, he would be more than open to that.  We set up our next date for a few days later and I prepared myself for a rather fun sleepover.  Continue reading


The Bad Date Chronicles – Mr. SportsCenter Edition

Stop smirking Neil. It’s not funny.
Last winter, I met a gentleman on a popular dating website.  Let’s call it … snatch.com.  On paper, everything seemed great.  Tall, dark, and handsome with a job, a car and his own place.  We exchanged a few witty emails back and forth and quickly progressed to a few light-hearted and flirty phone conversations.
The day of the big meeting was right out of one of those dreadful Katherine Heigl rom-coms, and I just ate it up.  Imagine, if you will a gorgeously chilly, crisp winter day in San Francisco.  The location – Union Square.  Christmas shopping was in full swing and the square was full of shoppers clutching their packages, tourists lined up at the Powell Street cable care turnaround, festive music wafting from the department stores.  We walked towards each other from opposite ends of Powell Street, on our cell phones when we saw each other across a crowded city block.  Eyes locked, shy smiles of recognition and relief lit up our faces as we walked towards each other, closer and closer until, as if drawn together by magnets, we half-jogged into a warm embrace.
He was more handsome than his online pictures, incredibly tall with mesmerizing green eyes that I just wanted to hibernate in for the winter.  Equally stunned by my appearance as I was with his, we ducked into a charming little dive bar and took a seat in a booth near the back.  The waitress came to take our order, and we blurted out the exact same drink order in unison.  Laughing, we looked at each other in astonishment and I was convinced right then and there that he was THE ONE.  The next few hours passed like moments as we sat in the cozy booth, kissing, my legs draped over his, talking about our lives and how neither of us could believe that this was actually happening!
Sadly, the time came for me to return home, and hand-in-hand we walked the few blocks to the train station.  Embracing tightly and sharing just one last kiss, we made plans to see each other the next week.  We kept in touch with a few brief calls that week, and my excitement mounted and the anticipation of spending the night with this man kept me alternately blissed-out and irritated at how long the week was taking.
The big night had finally arived.  Decked out in my black knock-off Herve Leger, hair and makeup perfect, I headed over to his house for what I believed was going to be an absurdly romantic evening.  He however greeted me at the door with a look of supreme annoyance, a ripped up white t-shirt, and ill-fitting boxer shorts.  He ordered me to sit on the couch while he finished writing an email in the other room and when I didn’t immediately comply, he raised his voice and repeated himself.  Stunned, I plopped down on the couch waited.  After a few minutes he came out and sat next to me.  “Are those fake eyelashes you’re wearing?  Take those off they freak me out.  And while you’re at it, take off all that makeup .  I hate that.” Continue reading