Vino, Veuve, and Italian Babies

Due to recent actions while traveling abroad, it has come to my attention that I want a boyfriend. I’m wondering how one goes from being this ridiculous gong-show of a girl to becoming someone’s girlfriend. Let’s back up here a little and see how this all unfolded…

My first night in Italy I went for dinner. I had so much free vino rosso brought to me, I literally don’t remember leaving the restaurant. I do however remember finding my way to the hotel bar. I also remember that they served Veuve by the glass, nice…however that didn’t really matter in the end since I drank a whole bottle anyways. Oops. Come midnight, the bartender gave me the grim news that the bar was closing. For a normal person this may pose a problem, but I’m sure you can imagine that I obviously found something incredibly entertaining to do with myself in this small, rustic town.

I asked the bartender where the nearest spots bar was. It was 18 steps around the corner. Fuck, it’s like Jesus is just asking for me to be an idiot. It was open, so it passed the most important test. The second most important feature of sports bars is the wide array of men that flock to them in order to watch sports. Unfortunately, Luigi’s Sports Bar was scattered with local men that were a little rough around the edges. Have no fear, I’d just continue to get wasted and entertain myself, besides,  I felt as though I was still sober enough to beat them away if entirely necessary. I was thrilled that the bartender could speak English. This was the first encounter in nearly a week where I could have a conversation without the use of my flailing arms and facial gestures. Bonus. The details of the next three hours there are a little sketchy…I remember vodka, and I remember at one point getting behind the bar to show the bartender how to “make a real shot.” (I actually only remembered that last part after I saw the picture of Facebook.) Come 3am, the bartender’s friend came in to say a quick hello. Now by no means was this someone I would have been interested in in real, sober life, but using the process of elimination, this was the hottest guy in the bar...or at least within a 2-foot radius, which was my maximum visual range at the time.

I grabbed the friend and told him to stay and have a drink. He said no he had to go, so I begged. It worked. I think it mostly worked because he could barely speak English and he didn’t know what the fuck he was agreeing to. Regardless of the reason, he sat, so I got him wasted and proceeded to lead him to my hotel around 4:30am. On the way I told him “I want to have sex with you, and I want you to give me a  baby.” His response to this? “Okay.” Okay? This country is hilarious! Okay? Not even a pause? Could you imagine what a man would say if I said that to him at home? Fuck , I love Italy. So we go to my hotel room and have insane drunk sex. I have flashes of memory about the whole event…I remember popping a bottle of champagne from the mini bar as if I’m Charlie Sheen at a bachelor party. I remember my Mickey Mouse t-shirt flying across the room and my bra quickly following. I remember confirming that he was going to give me a baby. He was still on board, perfetto. We had a lovely romp and I sent him on his way. After I recovered from my champagne coma the next day, I un-slung my bra from the balcony railing, pulled the champagne foil out of my tangled hair, and realized that I am probably not 100% ready to have a child. Luckily for me my blood alcohol content is consistently so high, it’s unlikely that I am able to create life within my body. However, from all this I have learned that I am ready for a boyfriend. So here we go again.

The Nice Girl Project will commence immediately. I hope my new boyfriend doesn’t mind that I may or may not be having Guisseppe’s baby. Minor detail.

"No, he didn't pee on me this time."

The only time I have ever lived with a boyfriend was when I was in my early 20s. He and I were madly in love, however thinking back I’m not sure if I was actually in love with him, or if I was just drunk for 8 months straight. In fact soon after we broke up, a dear friend of mine bet me that I couldn’t stop drinking for a month. Like any normal human about to enter such a ridiculous wager, I asked “Can I do drugs?” We agreed, yes, I could do drugs. Check. I won the bet. Earning $5.00 never felt so sweet. Anyhoo, back to the boyfriend…

My time with my live-in boyfriend was also the only time I’ve ever been unemployed in my adult life. He was a bartender and I was a stay-at-home deadbeat. For the love of humanity, there are a few men I need to stay away from: bartenders, drug dealers, and sex addicts. It’s not because they’re bad people, it’s because if I had any of those items at my personal disposal 24/7, I’d never get anything done. I’m not so much into drugs anymore, but I even in my ripe age I don’t think I could pass up a life of free-flowing Stoli and endless sex romps. It’s best to just keep my distance and pay for these services 5-7 times a week like a normal person.

The fact that my boyfriend was an alcoholic himself made my antics seem relatively acceptable. I mean, I was wasted all the time, but at least I didn’t…I dunno…say, pee the bed. That’s right. Sadly, I can’t say the same for my boyfriend. In fact, this happened more than once. We would both be out drinking together, we’d come home, have sex, and pass out. Good times. The only downfall was that we had different views on how dry a bed should be. As all my relationships do, this came to an end after 8 months due to an unrelated matter, not pertaining to our differing views on acceptable locations to urinate in the house. I never did keep in touch with him. I heard he was still bartending at a local bar. Actually, he told me that himself as he left my bed last Friday morning after four hours of sex. Oops. 

And no, he didn’t pee on me this time.

Nothing Gets Between Me and My Calvins...Except Paul

Last night I went to the club with my girls. It was a regular night, drinks, dancing, dry-humping 21 year-olds, you know, the usual. Towards the end of the night I noticed a rather tall, handsome bouncer that looked maybe 30, and I thought I'd try and strike up a conversation and see if I could take a night off from my silicone boyfriend and find myself a real man. We had a good conversation or two, he seemed into me, so I gave him my card. Thanks to my favourite pastime, slamming shots of vodka, 20 minutes later I forgot his name. So I asked my girlfriend, (she's a bartender at the club, and half the reason I'm an alcoholic), and she said, "Oh, the tall guy? That's Tall Paul." Check. I had between 2 and 10 more drinks, the details are a little fuzzy, and I sent myself home like Nice Girl. Just so you understand where I'm going with this, you should know that by 1am, I had zero recollection of this entire event, or how I got home for that matter.

So I'm minding my hangover beeswax this morning and I get a text from a number I don't know. It was a text saying that someone was impressed with my job title. Okay, so I know it's a guy I gave my card to, but that really doesn't narrow it down since I give those out like they're Pez in the 70s. So I reply with "Unless this is Sage or Armin van Buuren, lose my number." (Sage is a random guy I made out with 2 weeks ago who also has my card, and Armin van Buuren is, well, Armin van Buuren). I have no clue what possessed me to be so rude. Anyhoo, he continues the conversation with things like "You still don't know who this is, do you?", and I was really in no mood for playing games. I responded with "No, and I don't chit chat with strangers, so tell me who you are or beat it." He finally says "The bouncer from last night!" OOOOOHHHH, right, got it. The cute, tall bouncer from last night, Tall Paul. I immediately responded, "Paul!! I'm super sorry, thought you were someone else," to which he replied..."Paul??? This is Calvin." Huh. Calvin. Alrighty, well there's a thinker. I hopped in the shower and hoped I might be able to recollect who the fuck Calvin was by the time I scrubbed of my club stamps.

So 10 minutes later the shower is done and I still can not figure out who the fuck Calvin is, but luckily, I have another text from the alleged "Calvin." It said "I'm the tall bouncer from last night, but Paul and I do look the same, don't worry." Huh. Okay, so one of a few things is going on here:

1. I was flirting with both Paul and Calvin, and thought they were the same person.
2. I was flirting with Paul all night, and gave my card to Calvin on the way out, thinking he was Paul.
3. I was flirting with Calvin the whole time, but when I asked my girlfriend who the "cute tall bouncer" was, she thought I meant Paul.

I think number one is the funniest and, let's face it, the most likely scenario, given what an idiot I am. So here we are. And miraculously this Calvin/Paul person still wants to go out with me. Huh. To top it all off I'm going back to the same club tonight for a completely unrelated reason, so I'll likely run into them/those/it. Watching this all unfold should be rather amusing for the club patrons. Fucking vodka. Fuck.

The Pilot, the Chef, and the Silicone

You're probably wondering why I've been so quiet. The reason for my month of silence can be summed up in 5 words: Lia Magic Wand G-spot Vibrator. This 6.5-inch piece of silicone has changed my life. I kid you not, last Saturday I didn't get out of bed until after 5pm, and when I did it was only to replenish electrolytes so I could make it through my next session which started at 9pm. This pink rod of ecstasy has been my best friend and lover for the past month, until last night.

I've become better friends with the 23 year-old DJ over the past month. Apres the BlackBerry sex, we never ended up hooking up for real, instead we kinda became friends. Problem is, I was sitting at my office yesterday minding my own beeswax and he e-mailed me. The e-mail itself was a harmless, dumb-ass picture of Borat. Although it was clear that this guy didn't understand women in the slightest, that wasn't the problem. The problem was, when I saw his name pop up in my Outlook, my stomach flipped. Fuck. I realized I'm obviously starting to like this guy. Jesus Christ. After 30 seconds of daydreaming about how this ridiculous age gap worked out for Demi and Ashton and would surely be the same for us, it was imperative that I stop the mere stomach flip from escalating into another full-fledged, five alarm cougar attack. I immediately grabbed my phone and scrolled through to find a number of contestants suitable to distract me long enough to get over my DJ crush. After a few minutes I had it down to two finalists that I had let fall into the wings over the past few weeks...lucky them.

One of my two finalists lives in Switzerland ...he's a pilot and has a huge crush on me - harmless, but distracting - good. The other is a vertically-challenged hottie I met a couple of months ago at a wine tasting. He's an executive chef at the restaurant that was hosting the event, and he's cute as a button...and he's 29, which is "mature" in Nice Girl years. My Swiss pilot entertained me for the last 2 hours I was supposedly "working." I somehow even managed to convince him to try and quit smoking. (See? I am capable of good things). When my Swissie had to go to sleep, I started texting the chef. He was very responsive and we chatted all evening, and after 2 (10) glasses of wine, he asked me to hang out. I summoned him over to my place and we drank copious amounts of wine and made sweet love to each other until 3am. Then we woke up at 7am and did it again. Nice. I'm not gonna lie, after he left this morning I quickly re-acquainted myself with Lia, just in case she felt left out after last night's real-cock antics. We both felt much better. Five minutes after the chef left, something strange happened. He started texting me again.

All day today he has been having an ongoing conversation with me and keeps referring to our next "date." Huh. I have so many questions. Was last night a date? Does this guy actually like me? Is everything my mother said about putting out on the first date a lie? Was all this Nice Girl crap a complete waste of time? Do I even like this guy? Is it mean to ask your fiancee to stand on a milk crate while you exchange vows?

I hope to have the answers to at least some of these questions very soon. Stay tuned.

Beat It

I have this thing for DJs. Something about being able to control the mood of every individual in a building excites me. So last week I got a major crush on my DJ flavour of the month. I met him at some random party a while back, and we kept in touch. Last week our conversations reached a new level, and I got the vibe he wanted to make sweet sweet love to me and have my babies, so I agreed to go out with him.

The DJ and I had a great time. We both had the same favourite drink, he made me laugh, we both love the same kind of music...yes, I could definitely see myself walking down the aisle and becoming "Mrs. DJ" with this one. I knew he was a bit younger than me, but only by a couple of years...right? An hour into our date I was struggling to decide which one of my BFF sisters would be my maid of honour, and he asked me to guess how old he was. "30?" I asked. "23" he answered. Fuck. Really? Again? What the fuck is my problem? I'm like some kind of fetus magnet. I carried on with the date but when he dropped me off, I didn't kiss him. I fall in love with anyone who sticks their tongue in my mouth, so for once, I was trying to be smart.

For the next week we kept chatting and I mean, I liked the guy, he's just so young. I don't think I can go down this road again. By the time I'm finished banging the under-25 population, I'll have no eggs left and my legacy will die with me. Not acceptable. So how can I have my cake and eat it too? Last night I figured it out.

I was staying in a small-town hotel for work. Small. Like small-fucking-town. Like nothing is open past 9pm except for McDonald's, which closes at 10. So I decided to start sending the DJ some suggestive texts. I told him I was going to play with myself but I needed encouragement...by way of pictures. He was immediately into it. He of course asked me for one too, so I gnarled my body in some kind of Cirque-de-Soleil pose where I looked 30 pounds lighter than I actually am, and took a picture of my headless torso. I'm no idiot. I don't need this shit to end up on BustyBabes.com. In return, he took text orders from me and sent over a photographic story of what he was doing on the other end. It was the funnest 20 minutes I've ever had in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, and it ended happily ever after for both of us. Nice. I actually had so much fun I relived it this morning by myself thanks to the "Save File" feature.

The weird thing is, I feel like I'm done with him. Like I got what I needed and I'm good. Huh. Even if I'm not done, I'll just go back to the pictures and be done again....and again, if necessary. So I told him to beat it and he did. And now I want him to actually beat it. Ironic. I think I've found my new hobby.

Next.

Table for One, Wine for Three...Hundred

Hottie McAccent and I stopped seeing each other in a very boring, just not calling anymore kind of way. I'd have more to say about it if I gave a shit, but this guy was so busy he told me he saw his last girlfriend once a week for 3 years. Next.

So after the Israeli I decided to behave myself for a while. That ended last night...with a bang. There's a bouncer I may have mentioned a few months back that has been trying to get me in his bed for ages. He's hot but for one reason or another I just haven't been 100% into it, so it's never happened. I also feel this immense amount of pressure since even though I know he wants to have sex, the non-animal part of me still wants the element of surprise rather than the strict planning of sexual penetration sessions that he seems to prefer. So after opting to have wine FOR dinner instead of WITH dinner last night, I started to text him.

I was being relatively open about what I wanted from him, to the point where he kept asking things like "you're fucking with me, right?", or "are you jk??"...this was his lucky night, I was finally ready to give in. One small problem...he was working. Since I'm a day-walker, waiting for someone to finish work at 3am is relatively unacceptable, but since it had been a few weeks since my last penis sighting, I thought I'd take one for the team. I decided to go out with friends and continue to extend my liquid dinner into liquid dessert, and then a liquid midnight snack. I washed all of my liquid meals down with Stoli sodas. Sure enough, come 3am I was still up, hooray for me.

The bouncer finally got off work around 3:25am and said he was coming over. Greeeat. By this point I'd been home for about an hour becoming one with my amazingly comfortable sofa. I was semi-conscious when I heard him buzz in. For a second, I forgot who I was expecting and I thought I'd maybe ordered pizza.I was much more excited to have double-smoked pepperoni in my face than I was to have a penis in it, so when I realized no pizza was coming, I was slightly disheartened. But whatever, maybe this would be okay too.

First of all he was sober. That's not good. I'd been drinking copious amounts of liquor since sunset, and the sun was now rising. I also had to work in 5 hours, again, not a good start. But when he grabbed me and kissed me passionately, I figured this might be the best thing that's happened to me in a while and I decided to just let go. I must say that I haven't been kissed this way in quite some time...since I was a kid actually, when I would come home from school and my dog would tackle me and lick my face because she missed me so much. Yes, that was the last time I was kissed like this. I've had less saliva on my face after a four hour conversation with my friend "Lispy Larry." Unfortunately this horrible "kiss" set the mood for me. I wasn't in the mood to have sex, but I was in even less of a mood to talk about it, so I was a good sport and went along with it, and it was fun...for about an hour. Gentlemen, unless your dick is filled with vibrating beads and twirls inside us, we do not need to be fucked for longer than 10-20 minutes. Come 5am I asked if he was going to finish anytime soon. I now had to work in 4 hours, and I certainly was not going to finish anytime soon. He said he couldn't finish with a condom on. Classic. And too fucking bad, it was staying on. Then we started the bobbing war. He was trying to push my head into his lap and I kept pushing it back up. The only thing I want in my mouth at 5am is McDonald's hash browns, thanks. I told him he had to finish soon because I...was...done. He wasn't impressed. Him and his blue balls waddled out the door around 5:30am and I passed out on my couch in peace.

Then I woke up to a text message from him this morning, "There's nothing to say...lmao, worst sex ever." Now I wasn't particularly offended by this. I had no emotional attachment to the bouncer and mind-blowing sex is hard to come by when your level of sobriety only allows you to do the starfish. I guess I was more irked by the idea that a guy thinks it's okay to "lmao" to a girl after fucking her. That's not very nice! And who talks like that...what are you, 5? What if I liked him? That kind of thing could have really hurt! So I had to respond..."Well what did you expect? You've been begging to fuck me for weeks and I've turned you down repeatedly. I tell you I've had 2 bottles of wine and want you to come over, so you do...7 hours later at 4am! Ooooobviously I just wasn't into it, or you".

Next.

Can I Borrow a Cup of Sour Milk?

Well, the neighbour situation has finally gone bad. Extremely bad. Aw well, we had a good run.

Around Christmas I liked my next door neighbour; in fact, he was my first human case study in The Nice Girl Project experimental phase. I have never slept with him since. In fact since then, I have had absolutely zero interest in him. The sex was average. That means I forget what it was like. If it's amazing, I remember, and if it's horrible, I remember, but I literally can't tell you one detail of how things went that magical night in December. The only thing I remember is he has a nipple ring, (weird), and he's hairier than a muskox in the middle of an Arctic storm. After that I started dating the minor and my neighbour was seeing someone, so we didn't really talk much. It was slightly awkward, but so was talking, so I was happy to cap our hallway discussions at "How are you?". About a month ago we started talking again, and this quickly turned into our neighbourly old set-up where him, his roomie and myself wander back between each others apartments and hang out on a regular basis. It's lovely, like an episode of Friends. Except, remember that episode where Ross and Rachel break up and you want to cry and kill yourself? It's more like that one.

This past weekend I was hanging out with my neighbour's roomie and neighbour was on his way back. He phoned me en route and said "Hey...I'm bringing a girl back to hang out, so I just want to make sure you're not all over me...if you want to be all over my roommate, please, show him the love, go ahead, but just make sure you aren't all over me." Wait. Hold up. Was I sending off my secret sexual muskox calling whistle again? The egos on men never cease to amaze me. This lovely neighbour of mine managed to offend me in so many ways, logarithmic equations are needed to understand them. Not only did this piece of work assume that I am so in need of his hairy, pierced physique that I am not able to contain myself even in the presence of stranger spectators, he also suggested that I move on to his best friend/roommate and that would be entirely fine, like I'm some kind of hooker or something. Jesus Fuck. If I got paid every time I banged someone I'd be a fucking millionaire, get a clue asshole. In a nutshell, this phone call did not sit well with me. Did I mention I was drunk? Minor detail, but it explains why I reacted like this: there was a bowl of sugar-coated sour candies on the coffee table. Ironically, I had given my neighbours the candies the day before. I took the bowl of sour candies and dispersed them evenly on his bed sheets, under the comforter, being careful to ensure that every granule of sugar made its way into the bed. I lay the comforter over it and hoped that him and his date would have a hot, sweaty makeout session on the bed before realizing that melted sour candies had become one with his Ralph Lauren sheets. I went home.

The next day I got a nasty text message from him saying I was some kind of douchebag and to fuck myself. Then another "I will never forget what you did." What this guy for realsies? He'll NEVER forget what I did? Me neither because it was hilarious, but save the "I Know What You Did Last Summer" tone for the PO-lice, freakazoid. This nasty text message convo went well into the night. I told him he was an arrogant fuckwad and he told me I was negative and bad energy. You would be too around arrogant fuckwads, trust me. So I told him I don't want to talk to him anymore. Delete. 12 hours later I see him in the elevator. Fuck.

Okay, that's only half of the neighbour story. Remember my upstairs neighbour? I slept with his hot best friend months ago, then a couple of months ago upstairs neighbour tried repeatedly and aggressively to get me in the sack. It was exhausting to hang around him, so I didn't do it often, but that smart little devil knew that eventually, my blood alcohol level would be so high, I would be powerless against his un-stellar advances. I pity fucked the poor guy once, and that was that. He smells like smoke and has a straw up his nose more often than in his mouth...there's nothing I find appealing about this one. Which, in true male form, makes me irresistible to him. I've managed to keep him at bay, but then bumped into the hot best friend about a month ago and hooked up with him. He's still yummy, but I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings so lied to my upstairs neighbour and let on that nothing happened.

Then about 3 weeks ago I was hanging out with upstairs neighbour and his friend. All was going fine until his friends gradually left and there we were, alone. It was a ticking time bomb. I knew that in no time I would have to be beating away his unsexy ass, so I made for the exit, much to his shagrin. The next morning I woke up to a text message from him: "You told my friends that all I ever do is throw myself on you and you're not interested in me? I'm done with you, nice knowing you." Hm. Now that was a thinker. I don't remember telling his friends that but it was entirely possible. And I agreed, it wasn't a very nice thing to say to his friends. But bigger picture, was this some kind of incredible newsflash? I'm not interested in him and he throws himself on me incessantly every time we're together, which ends when I finally manage to beat him off me and say the word "no" anywhere from 12 to 60 times. Hm. Perhaps the combination of cigarettes and cocaine causes amnesia. They should really put that on the package.

I didn't have any kind of a response because frankly I wasn't interested in being his friend, and I had more interest in having sex with a celery stick than him. I didn't respond or give two shits. But for the next hour he texted me and told me I was a slut among other things. A slut? Do people over 12 still say that? Isn't any single person over 18 a "slut?" Since just 5 days prior I witnessed him doing lines of coke off a bathroom floor, I didn't take much offense to him thinking that I was the dirty bird here.

So there we have it. In the course of a week I've been called a slut by one neighbour, and told to fuck myself by another. Now where the fuck am I going to go when I need to borrow a cup of Stoli? Assholes.