There's always a catch...

I got nothing. I also realize I haven't written for some time. With that in mind, I leave you with a comic and some memorable quotes from my holiday weekend.

See more comics from this artist here.

Totally true, by the way. The next guy I sleep with better offer to take me home to his bed full of money. Also, please hide the dirty socks and the porn.


And noooooooooooooowwwwwwwwww (imaginary drum roll): memorable weekend quotes!

Three friends: S, A, and Me (now in fun, festive Christmas colors!).

A: [rambling about good sex with her man]

S: Hey, some of us aren't getting any.

Me: Yeah, don't rub it in, jerk.

A: I didn't say I had great sex today.

Me: I know you've had sex recently. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...

A & S: [laugh hysterically]

Me: I never knew I could segue into Casablanca so smoothly. 

All: [more laughter]

______________________________

The same three friends, while out shopping on Black Friday. Scene: I just returned to the car from putting away the empty shopping cart, and heard this while the girls loaded into the car. AAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaand ACTION!

A & S: [talking, mention salami]

Me: Whoa, what about salami now?

S: That is quite possibly the most random question ever.

A: Yeah, what ABOUT salami, huh?

Me: That'd make a good Facebook status. Guess who said this, the fat chick or the slut?

A: What if the fat slut said it?

S: Mmmmmmm....salami.

All: [laughter]

______________________

Me and S, after breakfast this morning:

Me: So my friend M has convinced himself that I'm flying out to see him for my birthday. I told him if I was going to that much effort, I better have one hell of a birthday surprise waiting for me.

S: Other than hot birthday sex?

Me: That's not really much of a surprise, is it?

S: Not really, but should still be loads of fun.

Me: Unless I have a boyfriend by then. 'Hey honey, sorry, but I've been friends with this guy for half my life and may never have another chance to fuck his brains out, so...'

S: He could be your freebie.

Me: My hall pass? I guess that works since I know I won't be shacking up with any celebrities.

S: And if you returned without sleeping with M, I would personally pick you up from the airport just so I could slap you. Seriously. TAP THAT.

Both: [laughter]


Conclusion: my friends and I are the best kind of slut.

If at first you don't succeed, offer her a dick pic. Yeah, that'll probably (not) work.

Oy vey.

A month since I last published. I have plenty going on to write about, just haven't had the time. Next entry will hopefully be about my latest adventures in moshing. I've gone to a couple concerts since I last wrote, and man was that fun! I'm still healing from the bruises sustained at Trespass America.

At any rate, since I have nothing of substance to say, I figured I'd leave you with yet another idiotic dating site email I received. This one is from a 21 year old kid. Let's just say he's younger than me, and I won't be sharing by how much. But as far as I'm concerned, we're in completely different generations, and maybe even on different planets from how little comprehension he demonstrates.

Without further ado:


Stupid kid who thinks I'm his personal slut (SKWTIHPS): hey my name is tyler u should text me my number is XXXXXXXXXX.


Me: You've given me absolutely no reason to text you. Also, you're not even in the same state as me. I'm not interested in virtual relationships or texting buddies.


(SKWTIHPS): I'm moving to Oakland in a month I was lookin for people to hang out with when I move


Me: Oakland is about an hour away from where I live. With traffic and my schedule, that would make hanging out casually nearly impossible. Good luck with the move, though.


(SKWTIHPS): Hear I'll send u a pic of my dick and see if it will change ur Ming u have to text me so I can send it though


Me: What. Thefuck.

Are you fucking kidding me dude? I've been around the block my dear, and unless yours is green or has some mutant growth on it, I'm fairly sure you're not packing anything I haven't seen before. Just the fact that you think this is an appropriate pick up line proves that we're never going to meet. Stick to girls your own age. They're the sluts you want.

EDITED TO ADD ('cause apparently the kid's too stupid to just move on to the actual sluts) - 

(SKWTIHPS) 20 minutes later: Nope just thought I'd be a dick since u wasn't willing to want to talk



Me ('cause I can't resist prime opportunities to be a smartass): News flash - I don't have to talk to every guy that hits on me. A little unsolicited advice for you: girls pretty much have their pick online, with all the guys that are online looking for a piece of ass. You might want to actually practice your game before thinking douchebaggery is going to help you score.

Also, you being a dick to me - is that some retarded way of trying to get me to apologize and be all, oh I'm sorry I'm not rearranging my schedule to meet you when you get to Oakland? Or some immature attempt at bullying me into giving my number out to someone I have no interest in? Come on, kid. Get real.

Another [loser] bites the dust...

More actual conversations with random online dudes. Is this honestly what passes for attraction these days?

Random clueless fuck face (RCFF): baby ur hot (sic)

Me: Try that line on someone else, dude.

RCFF: oh :( whats up btw

RCFF: hello

Me: Not interested.

RCFF: ok....i am bad at pickup lines anyway... :/

RCFF: take care miss

[waits 5 minutes]

RCFF: just one qs.....are u into BDSM?

Me: What the fuck? Are you totally clueless? What part of not interested says I'm willing to share intimate bedroom details?

RCFF: im just high ('cause that makes it all better, right? WTF?)

Me: Good for you, totally valid excuse. Glad you find me hot, and thanks for the compliment. That is not what I'm looking for. Have a nice day.

RCFF: okie. bye.

Moments that make you go hmm...

Sunday night, and I find myself in line at the grocery store. On the conveyor belt in front of me, an 8 pack of AA batteries and a bottle of water.

Behind the register, a man with an interesting look on his face...

Interesting ways to earn money

I've worked just about every job a person can, doing everything from picking up trash to pushing paper at the office to waiting tables to writing professionally.

However, one of my shortest gigs gets the most questions.

There was a time in my early 20s that I was a phone sex operator (PSO). Yes, there is actually an acronym for this. We were also called phone actresses for the politically correct.

You're probably picturing this.

Image: Flickr | Illusive Photography

The reality is more like this.

Image: Flickr |  Jerry Bunkers

 

Interestingly enough, I got the idea from my mom. She did a stint on the phones, too. She had office hours at home, with a notice posted on her door stating she was not to be disturbed. Apparently she was just that popular! So one day when I was bitching about needing a little extra cash for school, mommy dearest suggested I give PSOing the old college try.

I promise, we only sound like a super creepy family. We're the motherfucking Waltons at home, except with more attitude and a veritable herd of dogs. I digress.

Working as a PSO was appealing for a few reasons. You could work whenever you want, for as little or as long as you wanted. Basically you'd sign in when you were available and as calls came in they would be routed to you. Earnings were based on a sliding scale, which was determined by how many calls you took and how long you could keep clients on the phone. Also, STDs aren't transferable via phone. Yet.

There were some drawbacks, though.

You had to have a corded home phone, because calls connected via cell or cordless could be intercepted and overheard by a third party. If you weren't signed in and they had a heavy volume of calls, they'd start calling operators at home to get someone to sign in and take calls. There were times where if I wanted to sleep, I'd have to turn the phone off.

I had fun with it while it lasted, which was all of a month and a half. I'd get home from my evening classes, make some dinner, sign in to the call line and wait for calls to come in.

Believe it or not, roughly 75% of the calls were not sexual. Most callers simply wanted someone to talk to.

90% of the time, I was speaking to males. However, I would get the occasional female. And once I'm fairly sure I got a prepubescent boy. When I asked him about his age and quickly asked his birth year, they matched. I had no way of checking ID, so I had to talk dirty to this 12 year old kid.

For that 25% of the time where the conversation did turn dirty, I had little tricks up my sleeve for making it sound like I was getting off on this type of conversation. A trusty mayonnaise jar. A porno cued up in the background while I worked on my laptop.

It's sad - I'm really good at faking orgasms on the phone.

I had to be, though. Some of these people really wanted to get off in less than two minutes to keep the charges low. If I couldn't talk fast enough they'd hang up on me, which affected my take home pay.

I was a good sport and thought of it as just another job. Then I started getting the weird calls. Or at least, they were weird to me at the time, being relatively inexperienced in the kink arena.

Men who wanted me to be two women.

Men who wanted me to be tall, black, and wearing hot pink fishnets (yes, the fantasies got that specific!).

Men who wanted me to tell them about my leather pants-wearing, hot football-playing boyfriend with a monster cock who liked to humiliate effeminate men while I violated them with a giant dildo.

FYI, I never had a football player boyfriend with a penchant for sadism and wearing painted-on leather pants. Dude made that up all on his own and I had to play along.

That last phone call was the end of the PSO line for me.

Funny, when I started I had this vision of myself being this cool, sexy chick who could convince strangers to get off on the phone, all from the comfort of home. I quickly figured out I couldn't share that part of myself with strangers, and faking it was affecting my own confidence and ability to get turned on.

I guess some of us just weren't made to be phone sex pros.

My favorite pickup lines

Most women have heard a lame come-on at some point in their dating lives. It doesn't matter how a chick looks - some dude has tried to pick her up with some corny, "I lost my number, can I have yours?" routine.

Many, many (manymanymanymanymany) moons ago when I was in college, I was a regular at a local dive bar. My favorite bartender had just made me my favorite drink, and I settled in to listen to the not quite so favorite local band. To my surprise, a young man approached. He never introduced himself. He simply sat down next to me and asked a strange question.

Young Man (YM): I'm curious. Are you a chicken farmer?

Me: [stunned, blank stare]

YM: Well, are you?

Me: What on earth would make you think I'm a chicken farmer?

YM: 'Cause you're raising my cock.

Me: [beat] [hysterical laughter]

YM: [beams]

Me: I'd like to buy you a drink, sir. That was a damn good one!

I never got his number. And I certainly don't remember his name. Hell, at this point I'm not entirely sure he was a man, except lesbians probably wouldn't be claiming I raised their cocks. I just remember the line, and the fact that he was ballsy enough to pull it off. I bought him a drink, true to my word. And we spent the next couple hours chatting until we parted ways.

That line is one of my favorite memories from my singlehood. I loved it so much that I routinely get into best pickup line contests with my girlfriends. Here are some of my favorites:

• That shirt is very becoming on you. Of course, if I were on you, I'd be coming too.

• How do you like your eggs in the morning, scrambled or fertilized?

• That dress looks great on you. It'd look even better on my floor.

• Can I take a picture of you? I want to show Santa what I want for Christmas.

• You must be a parking ticket 'cause you've got fine written all over you.

• How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice.

• Your dad must be a baker, 'cause you got some hot buns.

• Fuck me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name ___________?

• I'm glad I have my library card, 'cause I'd like to check you out.

• Don't you think most people who use pick-up lines are dipsticks? (Yes.) In that case, mind if I check your oil level?

• Excuse me, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

Have you heard any lines that made you laugh? What about lines that actually worked? I wanna hear the best of the best. Maybe I'll even buy you a drink. Maybe.

Sex, love, and crazy chicks.

Sounds weird to wake up and suddenly realize you love yourself, right? Some sort of bullshit self-empowerment Tony Robbins mumbo jumbo.

Except this actually happened to me. Me, the wiseass, who's always had everyfuckingthing figured out. Even though I don't know it all, I always know it all. That's just who I've always been.

I suddenly realized how much posturing it was. I bought into that "fake it 'till you make it" crap until I had myself convinced I'd made it when I was only faking it.

By now you're probably wondering what the hell I'm smoking, so I'll cut to the chase -

I really liked that last guy I was seeing. Problem with that? Yeah - I tried to play cool and pretend I didn't, and that all I wanted was some sort of casual thing. I'm a tough broad, right? No one gets close to me, I hold all the cards.

Except I'm not. My whore of a vagina led me to someone I dug. And in denying that I liked the guy, I became a crazy. One of those cunts that I'm always ragging on about "why do those chicks go crazy and convince all guys that all women are psycho?"

It's because we obsess. We over-analyze. Chicks, I'm talking to you so fucking pay attention.

We try to play tough even if we're not. What's worse is we play weak when we're not, all in the name of some false definition of what guys are supposed to find attractive.

I'm that chick I love to hate, because I'm always railing about how I don't play games and it turns out I was. Only I was playing games with myself, convincing myself I'm above dating and relationships and love because I've been hurt before. That cool ungettable girl. Yeah fucking right.

My takeaway is kinda surprising though. As I said, I spontaneously woke up and realized I love myself. No, that's not a euphemism for masturbating up a storm.

It was just a sudden realization that I've been unhappy for a long time. I've let my happiness and self-worth be pinned on outside forces in my life for so freaking long that I forgot how to let go and be me. It's kinda liberating to know I'm just as big a fuck-up as the next crazy chick.

I love myself. Even on days when I'm not happy with myself. And that's leagues ahead of the rest of the human race.

I've never laid down and given up, despite the bullshit in my life.

I get curious about something and I go out and do it, even if I'm afraid, because I'd rather be a little reckless and have a hell of a story to tell later than play it safe and wonder the rest of my life.

I'm a mosh pit dancing, blues singing, crazy red-headed happy chick. Watch out, world. Especially those of you who play dodgeball against me. My balls are coming for you. Errr...yeah.

True tales of car nookie

I met up with my lover again last week, shortly after I wrote the entry schooling everyone on the finer points of car sex and strategy.

The sad thing is I'm finally in a place with a plenty of privacy. My housemates don't have a problem with guests, and they know I'm considerate.

HOWEVER.

There is one thing I don't have any goddamn control over - my vocalizations when getting busy.

I'm sorry, but if I enjoy it I'm not really paying attention to how I sound or what I'm saying. I'm just doing what feels good. That includes the occasional scream.

With that in mind, I was nervous about having the lover over to the new place for some sexin'. I really wanted to find out if I could control myself and not scare the new neighbors.

Short answer? I can't. I digress.

Basically, we decided we'd violate one another in his car again to see if I could keep quiet. In a hilarious twist, we wound up stopping at a 24 hour drug store to pick up humongous bottles of water. All I could do was laugh when he grabbed the bottles.

Lover: What?

Me: We're following my advice on having car sex.

Lover: Oh. [laughs] So we are!

Me: This is so going in the blog.

Both: [laugh]

20 minutes later -
Both: [sex]

Aaaaand there you have it. I'm not only the creator of the rules, I follow them as well.

Sex 101: Christening the Car

Recently, I met a lover. This is why I haven't been writing as much.

Priorities, people.

Due to circumstances, neither of our residences was an option for hooking up. This left us with few options:

Hotel 

Unfortunately that gets pricey in a hurry, especially with my libido.

And sometimes you get more than you bargain for.

Image via Flickr | rojer

Public

Awesome. I'm down for public sex. Not really down for audiences, tickets, or jail time, though.

However, I'd tolerate a ride in the back of a police vehicle if we got to go full-on lights and sirens.

Car

This has become the default option for us. Unfortunately such marvelous inventions as seatbelts (and the fucking BUCKLE), center consoles, cup holders, and more can really interfere with getting comfortable.

Adjusting to car sex led to a lot of bruising and a rather large mess. Though part of me is proud that our adventures prompted a full car detailing, in a sick and twisted way.

So now, I figured I'd share some essentials of successful car sex order to maximize comfort for people who need to get some but have limited locational options.

I do not recommend this position in small cars. Not safe. Not safe at ALL.

Image via Flickr | fung.leo

1. Blankets 
Venturing into TMI here, but some of us leave wet spots. If you're not cool with your car smelling like OMGSHITTONSOFSEX for weeks, you might want to have something in place that will absorb those bodily fluids so they can't linger for days on end. Of course, if you're into lingering odors (and bacteria), feel free to ignore this little piece of advice.

Fact: blanket = pussy magnet.

Image via Flickr | Maarten Dirkse

2. Condoms
As the old saying goes, accidents in back seats cause people. Protect yourself from disease, smelly cars, and parenthood. But don't keep them in the car or the continuous change in temperature will make them ineffective. Broken rubbers do not prevent kids.

You might wanna double-bag it if you picked her up at the local bar.

Image via Flickr | robertelyov

3. Water
Because even though you're fogging up the windows like nobody's business, you're probably still going to be working up quite a sweat. Hydration is essential.

If you want her love to flow like this, keep her hydrated.

Image via Flickr | Alaskan Dude

4. Lube.
Speaking of hydration, lube is a must. There isn't anything quite as UNsexy as not being able to get it in due to technical difficulties. Lube will ease that transition and allow you to get back to the feel-good sensations instead of worrying about what might be going wrong.

The product title says it all.

Image via Flickr | stagshop

5. A relatively isolated place. 
I feel like this goes without saying, but apparently a friend of mine witnessed a couple going at it in their car in a crowded parking garage on a Tuesday night. I understand that when you need some, you need some. But as I mentioned earlier, I don't want good lovin' to lead to jail time. Jail is not sexy.

6. A car large enough for these kinds of activities. 
I'm not exactly tall, but I still have problems with hitting my head on the roof of the (in our case, rather large and spacious) car. And holy shit, do seat belt buckles rubbing against your inner thighs and/or rib cage HURT.

So can you get it on in your tiny ass sports car? Probably not happening, sorry to break it to you.

Soccer mom van? Fuck. Yes. It's the perfect shaggin' wagon.

Now that you know what's up, bring some supplies and bend her over the backseat. Bottoms up!

Sex 101: Dining at the Y

I'm gonna burst some of you fellas' bubbles. I've got news for you -- you're not nearly as talented at muff diving as your past girlfriends and one-nighters have led you to believe.

I know this because if some broad had actually told you what you were doing wrong and what you were doing right so that she could actually get off, you'd stop taking your cues from lame porno scenes.

So here's a few hints for the dudes (and maybe some of the chicks who are venturing into eating clam):

1. Trim your raggedy ass nails.

Personally, I'd prefer you get a fucking manicure. If you're not going to do that, at least take a damn nail file to your fingers every once in awhile and tame the hangnails. If you come at me with those suckers, I promise this is the only thing I see:

What do you mean keep that shit away from me?

Get with it, guys! VAGINAS ARE SENSITIVE. We feel every. little. THING. down there. Rough cuticles? Yep. Stubbly chin? Ouch. Hairy knuckles? Feels like being fondled by Robin Williams.

The point is this: clean and groom and take extra special care of anything you plan on shoving up my hoo-ha, k? If not, I'm gonna send Freddy here after your bunghole so you can see how it feels.

2. The face shake thing? FUCKING STOP IT ALREADY.

A guy's going down on a chick. Right, this is starting off well. 

You see his tongue dart out ever so delicately to lap at her girly bits. OK, I'm on board with this. 

He latches his lips on her clit and gently sucks and she moans, getting all into it. Then like a dog trying to fucking KILL something, he rapidly shakes his head "no", effectively looking like an idiot and rubbing his face all over her poontang.

This does not feel good on genitalia. You are not a dog. Stop acting like one.

Image: Saturn via Flickr

The worst part? He expects her to be over the moon or even getting off because he just shook his face harder than a wet dog IN HER VAG. This is one of those things you fuckers definitely got from god-awful porn.

I'm gonna break you of that habit if it kills me. I swear, each and every one of you that tries that move on me will get a BJ using the same tactics. Wait, you didn't want me to literally kill your boner with my face? My bad, I got that trick from porn.


3. The vagina is NOT a punching bag. 

Please stop trying to fuck my vagina with your entire forearm. There are women who are into that, but they generally make it clear up front they're into being human puppets.

Alternate: Don't get a good rhythm going with a finger or two and then suddenly decide you need to jackhammer me. If I wanted a Sybian, I would purchase one. You deciding to be a human piston effectively means you are now PUNCHING ME IN THE COOCH.

BAM! Sucka.

 Image: Alva Chien via Flickr

Think about it - your knuckles, they are still outside of my body. Those parts are soft and yielding and generally can't take a Tyson-esque beating.  Before long, they're gonna give up and stop guarding the entrance to my insides. I don't fancy the idea of you reaching all the way up there to punch me directly in the uterus.


These are the basic rules. I'd also like to include the following self-explanatory rules for good measure:

4. If you don't go down, don't expect her to.


5. If you expect her to be clean shaven, you better be shaving your balls and bunghole.


6. Figure out what she likes and KEEP DOING IT.

Happy eating! Don't forget to leave a Yelp review!

Sex 101: Where Babies Come From

Years ago, I had my tonsils taken out. At the time, I lived on a military base and was scheduled for surgery at the on-base Naval Hospital.

A friend came to stay with me in the event of complications. She drove and waited with me in the private room as I was getting ready (read: baring my ass in a cheap hospital gown and sexy non-skid hospital socks).

Soon after I was dressed, the nurse came and asked that I go pee in a cup to prove I wasn't pregnant before they could OK putting me under general anesthesia.

I naively remarked that my significant other had been gone for many, many months. I highly doubt I am the next Virgin Mary (a little too late for that). Whatever immaculate conception I might have would probably bring about the apocalypse.

He laughed. Why are you laughing, good sir? I asked. I probably left out the "good sir" bit though. I always like to imagine myself in the best possible, most mannerly light even though I probably swear more than Lisa Lampanelli and Andrew Dice Clay's imaginary love child.

Goddammit, motherfucker! I don't want to piss in a cup, asshole!

The nurse explained that he once was stationed on a ship. About five months into his deployment, one of the guys suddenly started passing out cigars and telling all his cronies that he was a daddy. His wife was officially four months along. Keep in mind the wife was on base the entire time husband was deployed overseas.

Say what?

So....you've been gone for five months. And now your wife is four months pregnant. Something's not adding up, dude.

It turns out the young, misguided soldier was under the impression that sperm doesn't die.

He thought he could jerk off into a plastic baggie and then MAIL THAT SHIT ACROSS THE PACIFIC OCEAN. Once it arrived safely, likely smelling like death and wet dog, the loving wife would of course somehow inject this loving gift into herself and conceive (I imagine a turkey baster works best for this kind of self-marination).

Poor abused turkey baster.

Holy COW are those strong swimmers, man. They must look like THIS dude:

Or we could go with the more likely option - your wife is a tiny bit smarter than you. She figured out you'd buy her story about sperm-in-a-bag impregnation and that she could shack up with someone else without worrying about whether she'd have to deal with that nasty if-I-get-pregnant-I'm-screwed scenario.

Of course, the nurse informed the confused young man that his chosen method of procreation doesn't really work, and that there was a strong likelihood he was not the father based on the dates of conception and deployment.

And that, my friends, is where babies come from. It's the new Dick in a Box: Sperm in a Bag!

Step 1: Open a plastic bag

Step 2: Put your jizz in that bag

Step 3: Make her open that bag

Step 4 (optional): Also, include a turkey baster.

Pantsless O'Clock - The perfect time to break up!

I was chatting with a girlfriend about a recent breakup. For a change, she was dating a nice guy. But he was too nice. She broke up with him. Then she dropped a bomb on me - she was upset he didn't fight for her.

Only she had a very specific definition of "fight".

She told me how upset she was that he didn't immediately try to finger bang her and growl, "you're not going anywhere" at her when she tried to leave.

Apparently, she's a fan of grudge fucks and being dominated.

I've NEVER heard of this as a strategy for breaking up and making up. There's that infamous scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Jason whats-his-face refuses to put on clothes because she can't break up with him while he's naked, but that's as close as I've ever heard it getting.

(Apparently he really WAS naked)


But seriously. I'm trying to figure out logically how this scenario is possible. The nearest I can guess is that she tells him, "honey, we need to talk. First, I'm gonna need to you take off your pants." And then she proceeds to remove hers.

Once everyone is pantsless, it's time to sit down and talk, right? But if she's sitting all dainty and cross-legged, he's not gonna be able to shove his fingers up some poon when it's go time. I figure she has to further insist that they sit with their legs splayed like they're stretching their hamstrings. I doubt it looks like the image below, but picturing it amuses me greatly:

Remember, we're not actually wearing pants. Peek-a-boo!

Now that we're all de-pantsed and sitting in the proper position, it's time to duke it out. Normally, there'd be a rule about not hitting below the belt. But I guess that's out since she technically DOES want to be hit below the belt, right?

Question!?

Is there an optimal fingering strategy for this type of scenario? Are we talking one lone, delicate finger? How about two? Is there some wiggling going on? Or do we move straight to whole-fist-up-the-vag? I feel like that last option is more junk punching than fingering, but I hear some people are into it.

This strategy is totally on my to-do list. First step, find boyfriend. Second step, piss him off and insist on pantsless fighting/finger banging. Wish me luck!

Move On Mom And Dad (MOMAD): Why you should always listen to your gut when dating

Why am I lucky?

For the past few years of dating, I have not been stood up once. I've been a lot more picky about who I set up dates with, and the result has been a lot more quality and a lot less headache.

One dude snuck in under the radar though, which sucks ass, and not in a good way.

C is the guy I've been seeing for about a month now. It's been super casual. In fact, so casual that its very nature is why this entry merited the MOMAD label. He was my fuck buddy. In fact, on our first date, what started out as a 1 pm lunch date turned into me not getting home until the next morning.

Whew. Hormones.

So basically we just meet at "our" hotel these days and keep things casual. He knows I'm still dating other guys (FYI -- dating around is not sleeping around. I do one guy at a time thank you very fucking much), and seemed cool being friends with benefits.

Fast forward to now. What was supposed to be a night of hot post-Christmas sex has turned intome sitting at Starbucks the day after Christmas, pissed off.

Here's how it went down:

I hadn't heard from him since Friday, so I went to double check with him that we were still on for today. I got a reply to my text that read, "How r u looking 4". Odd. He and I are the type to obnoxiously spell everything out. After that, I sent one more text and didn't get a reply.

Like a moron, I still went. I showed up and asked the front desk man if C had made the reservation he said he would.

No reservation.

I sat down in the lobby and called C, left a voicemail. Checked my email. Checked my texts.

Nada.

I left him an email, a real simple job. Something along the lines of "I made it, and am waiting in the lobby. I plan on leaving at 6 if I don't hear from you before then".

That could be read as pretty bitchy, but I don't particularly care. I spent too many years being nice and accommodating to the douche nozzles I dated. Fuck that noise. Fuck it with a rusty foot-long railroad spike. In the ass.

I waited until 10 to six, by that time having spent just shy of an hour in the lobby. The front desk man was morbidly curious, coming by to check on the poor just-stood-up chick sitting in the lobby fucking around on her phone.

Dressed up? Check.

Nice hotel? Check.

Playing Sudoku on my phone? Well, that wasn't how I envisioned my night going.

I went down to my car, threw on a pair of sneakers and changed my nice blouse for a t-shirt. I bundled up (it's fucking cold) and got in my car. As I pulled out of the hotel driveway, I swear to God I saw his car parked just down the street.

Ever the fucking optimist, I actually turned around and went back to the hotel to see if maybe I'd somehow missed connections. The doorman looked down on me with all the pity he could muster and informed me no one had come in.

I left again, pissed off. Then I found a Starbucks. Now you're all caught up.

Oh! I almost forgot...when I left the second time, the car that I thought was his was gone. No clue.

I'm a fucking idiot. I knew what I was getting into up front, and I'm glad that the crazy switch was flipped before this went on too much longer.

The dude told me on our second date that he was bi-polar. Not only did he tell me that, he disappeared for about a week at the beginning of December, telling me he'd had a "bad period" and that his paranoia had been in overdrive.

From the moment that little over-share hit my ears, my gut was screaming RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!!!1!1!111111!

My vagina, slut that she is, overrode my head and said, "but crazy sex is fucking awesome sex!"

My head responded with, "yeah, but we've been the crazy sex route before. After awhile, all that's left is the crazy."

And my vagina responded with, "shut up, for real. You know we haven't been laid in a long time. Do this for me. Please? Please?! PLEASE? OHMYGODPLEASEHE'SSOHOTANDIWANTHIM! Please?"

And my head, ironically the pussy in this little skit, caved.

I fucked him every which way to Sunday. I saw, I conquered, and man I fucking CAME.

Boo on the crazy. Boo, I say.

Imagine me in Starbucks, wagging my finger in admonition at my vagina.

"You don't get to make decisions for us anymore, 'Gina," I'm telling her. "If you pull this crap again, we're becoming a nun."

That ought to teach my whore of a vagina.

A rant on traditional relationships

What's wrong with dating these days? Everyone wants to be loved, right?

I guess my curse is wanting something different. If you really look at dating and romance, it's become pretty damn formulaic, has it not? Check it out:

1. Meet, sparks fly.
2. Date, become exclusive.
3. Fall in love as you get to know one another.
4. If you really want to be corny, insert some boy loses girl or girl loses boy drama just for fun.
5. Reconcile in a super cheesy can't-live-without-you love fest.
6. Get engaged and/or move in together.
7. Get married and/or have kids.
8. Spend the rest of your lives being blissfully happy and/or annoying the living shit out of each other. Sometimes both AT THE SAME TIME.

I'm tired of being told what's normal, especially by mass media. I completely disagree with the fact that being a single chick in her late twenties is something to be embarrassed by.

The thing is, this need for a fairy-tale romance is deeply ingrained in our society. Running alongside the mainstream culture's search for "the one" is a counter-culture of guys and gals basically trying to see who can have the most sex.

I'm caught somewhere in the middle. I've done the serious relationship thing and at this point in my life, it's NOT for me. But I'm also not trying to be grand high queen of the sluts. Who wants a gift they can't give back? Interpret that how you will.

So now it's back to basics. I'm just doing what makes me happy and going out with men when I have the time/inclination. If they can't hack it, they get thrown back in the pit to fight it out.