I care a lot about my looks...I don't think I've left my home without makeup in the past 15 years. The way I see it, I'm doing you the favour...Jesus Christ, I'm not the one looking at my face all day, you are, so you're fucking welcome. About two years ago, I realized that I had been punishing the general population for decades with my lacking upper lip. Such a pretty face, but no upper lip, there was only one clear solution: pay someone hundreds of dollars to stick needles in my face and make me look like Angelina Jolie. Done. For the past two years I've gotten my lips done repeatedly, and despite the less than impressed reaction from my friends who fell in love with me as the Lipless Wonder, most people appreciate the improvement.
Last weekend I went to get a minor touch-up, nothing serious, just a couple pricks here and there and I was on my way. However, this time, something strange happened. About an hour after I left my doctor's office, my entire bottom lip had turned blue and was cold. Huh. Now I've read a lot of books by doctors...well, one doctor, Dr. Suess, and if I've learned anything, it's that you shouldn't let stray cats in the house, and also, if any part of your body is cold and blue, it has likely lost circulation. Now, you'd think that this would alarm me, particularly because I have done the procedure about 10 times before and never ended up with a cold blue sausage for a lip, but it didn't scare me in the least, so I smacked myself in the face a few times trying to increase circulation to the area, and continued on with my day, where I had planned to go out of town to meet some friends.
I don't want to bore you with the details, let's fast forward to approximately 9pm that evening, where I am being discharged from the emergency department in my friend's hometown. I know you're worried, don't be, I'm fine, my ridiculous antics will carry on for many years to come. So there I am, my lip is now only partially blue, I have about 3 bruises on the lip area, and a massive bruise that encircles the bottom half of my mouth and reaches half way down my chin. In a nutshell, I look like a hooker that didn't pay her pimp. However, I felt the need to rejoice the fact that I was still alive, so I went along with my dinner plans with my friends.
My friends took me out to a Mexican place. I believe I was doing a shot of Cuervo's finest when I realized I still had my fucking hospital bracelet on. For fuck's sakes, how was I even served wearing that thing? Sheesh. Fucking bartenders, can't trust them to watch out for you in the least. Idiots. My friends had to work early so after dinner they dropped me off at my hotel. The only problem was, I wasn't quite done rejoicing yet. I had a drink at my hotel bar, (which I actually had no recollection of until I saw it on my bill at check-out), then I went to the only club I knew in the city. As I was waiting in line alone, three guys behind me started talking to me. Now this was something else. Not that I got hit on by three guys simultaneously, that happens on occasion, but the fact that three guys were hitting on a girl that looked like she'd just lost a fight in the Irish pub next door. They chatted me up for the next 20 minutes...they were soccer players in the MLS, one was from Peru, one from France, and my favourite was from Chile. They all had amazing accents so naturally, 20 minutes was all it took for me to go with them to a place that would actually let us in.
I spent the rest of the night with these guys all fighting over me, and every chance I got I made out with the Chilean. He was yummy. Around 2am I realized I STILL had my hospital bracelet on...oops, guess the aftermath of the tequila made me forget to take it off. Even though my international fan club didn't seem to mind, I thought it would be best to remove it before I ended up with my Chilean Sauseege, wearing nothing more than my hospital momento. I woke up the next morning wondering if they were insane and incredibly un-picky, or if I was fucking awesome. Naturally, I chose the latter. Still fucking got it.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Facial Surgery, Magnetic Beds and Chipotle Mayo
Well, I just had my first 41 year-old date. I can already tell this is going to be a problem, and not the fun kind of problem like running out of condoms or only having Pakistani Chardonnay in the house...the annoying ones like overdue bills and early morning meetings.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
The minute I met the mature bachelor, he said "I just want to squeeze you!" hugged me hard and was quite literally bursting of excitement. If I asked him to marry me right there on the spot, I'm relatively certain he would have obliged. I don't want to sound like a masochist here, but I don't like it when guys like me that much. For starters, he knows very little about me, so his ecstatic reaction to seeing me in the flesh only makes me think he's built me up in his head to be some kind of Martha Stewart/Wonder Woman/Jenna Jameson. For seconders, now I know I don't need to do anything to impress him, and that is just no fun. I could have shown up without makeup on and farted during the appetizers, and I'm pretty sure I would have gotten the same warm welcome. The one good thing is that I immediately relaxed once I realized that he was never going to see me naked.
We went for lunch, the food was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. My pineapple soda was lovely. The conversation was absurd. First, he told me that when he was a kid, they had to break his jaw and reconstruct him from the cheeks down because he had some kind of facial deformity that caused his lower jaw to stop growing while his upper jaw to continued to expand. Huh. All I thought about for the next 20 minutes was how, if this did turn out to be my dream husband over the course of this meal, our children would have a 50% chance of having to endure years of operations and rehab to their faces, or otherwise end up looking like descendants of Bart Simpson.
When I tuned back into the live conversation, I hadn't missed much...he talked for 10 minutes about the exact same stuff we had discussed in our hour-long conversation three days prior. Then he asked me what I did for a living....which was interesting because again, we discussed that at length just 72 hours before lunch. So one of two things is happening here...either I can expect to have a severe decline in memory function between now and 41, or he was hammered when we last spoke and doesn't remember a thing about me. For the next 20 minutes I listened to him tell me about his job...again. Then, he asked me if I believe in the healing properties of stones and gems, hmm...I didn't know to be honest, I've never thought about it. I believe in the healing powers of scotch on the rocks, does that count? Regardless, this could be interesting for me to listen to, so I give him the conch again. He proceeded to tell me that he sleeps on a bed of magnets because it makes him feel closer to the earth. What? There were so many parts of that sentence that confused me, I have a headache from the facial gestures that followed. He then told me about the special shoes he buys, also with magnets. Magnets? In your shoes? What? I seriously need to Google this shit as soon as I'm finished writing today, I've never heard of such insanity. At this point, I'm thinking it's no fucking wonder this guy is single...I wouldn't exactly want to shack up in the magnetic bed of this cuckoo clock. And you just know that anyone who needs "special shoes" is in fact, just that..."special."
He walked me back to my office and continued to talk about how living with magnets is the best way to become one with nature. I prefer to go outside, but what do I know. When we hugged goodbye I didn't realize I hadn't looked at his face in quite some time. I looked up for what I knew would be our final goodbye, and there was a huge clump of chipotle mayo in his beard. Gross. I didn't have the heart to tell him at that point...he would have known that I hadn't looked at his face for a solid 30 minutes. Is this my future? Intensive surgery for my children, magnetic beds, and chipotle mayo? Jesus Christ. I feel sick. Maybe it's just the image of the mayo that I can't seem to get out of my head. I wasn't in my office for 5 minutes before he asked me out again. Oh Magnet Man, I hope you take my lack of response as a subtle hint that I'm not interested in waking up with my steel watch magnetized to your bedside. Keep looking, Magnet Man, I'm sure you'll find your Earth Girl one day. PS - I think I lost one of my bobby pins on your shoe.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Classy Idiot Project
The elusive Stairs Man turned out to be married. Lovely. Stairs Man is actually the second guy in as many months that I've hooked up with, only to find out through various methods of stalking that the reason he's not calling is because he's at home with his wife, kids, and chlamydia. I'm losing hope in the human race, and my excitement for exploring men has plummeted. The two guys I've been with since I found out about Mrs. Stairs Man have been boring, even limp. It's like guys can sense my disgust for men in general and their dicks shrivel upon contact with my angry vagina.
Bachelor number one: the child. This was some random idiot I met at the casino and fucked for the mere fact that for months I had been saving my body for my friend's brother and that needed to end immediately. The guy was 21 and had this ego on him like he was the answer to my prayers. He was the answer to my dry spell, and was the perfect candidate, until he slept over and wouldn't leave, ugh. Unless I've given a guy some kind of CLEAR sign that I want to pretend we're married for the next 12 hours, I would appreciate it if they'd beat it. This rule especially applies to guys who aren't old enough to rent a car, since every time I look at them after we've done the deed, I start reassessing my life choices which greatly interrupts my ability to fall into a deep REM sleep. The next morning I made myself breakfast and didn't even feed him water. He still didn't leave. I would have offered him bus fare but to be honest I'd rather spend the $2 on a Cream Soda Slurpee. Finally I turned on The Young and the Restless and just stopped talking to him. He finally picked up on my subtle hint to get the fuck out of my apartment and left, but not without asking for my number. Really? Give me a break.
Bachelor number two: the bartender. Bartenders are always an easy target. I met this one when I was out for dinner with a friend. For no particular reason the manager started buying my girlfriend and I drinks and we hung out with the staff after they closed down. Using the process of elimination, I singled out the hottest guy in the group and proceeded to get him wasted. Mission accomplished. I took him home and a week later we met for Round 2. We should have left it at Round 1, since Round 2 was the cause of The Unfortunate Limp Dick Incident, and left me with a lowered sense of self-esteem and a serious case of blue clit. He insisted it was the condom's fault, but I have a zero-tolerance policy for banging bartenders without protection. I'd have less of a chance of contracting a disease if I licked the floor of an insulated lab at the Infectious Disease Control Centre.
I've had bad sex in my life, but with the addition of this married man drama, I've never felt so positive that I treat men like shit because that's what they are. I have been advised by my friends that it's simply the young guys that are losers, and that I need to skip a couple of decades and find myself a nice 40 year-old. I don't know how I feel about older men. Most of them could probably be the fathers of the guys I usually date. The number "40" instantly reminds me of old principals, bosses, and old man stench. But before I do something crazy like swear off sex or alcohol, I'll try and get over myself and see if I can focus my efforts on someone older than me. I guess this means I'll have to change my old habits. Instead of getting wasted, I'll get a mortgage. Instead of fucking random idiots, I'll fuck random intelligent people. I'll be a classy idiot. It's worth a shot...
Bachelor number one: the child. This was some random idiot I met at the casino and fucked for the mere fact that for months I had been saving my body for my friend's brother and that needed to end immediately. The guy was 21 and had this ego on him like he was the answer to my prayers. He was the answer to my dry spell, and was the perfect candidate, until he slept over and wouldn't leave, ugh. Unless I've given a guy some kind of CLEAR sign that I want to pretend we're married for the next 12 hours, I would appreciate it if they'd beat it. This rule especially applies to guys who aren't old enough to rent a car, since every time I look at them after we've done the deed, I start reassessing my life choices which greatly interrupts my ability to fall into a deep REM sleep. The next morning I made myself breakfast and didn't even feed him water. He still didn't leave. I would have offered him bus fare but to be honest I'd rather spend the $2 on a Cream Soda Slurpee. Finally I turned on The Young and the Restless and just stopped talking to him. He finally picked up on my subtle hint to get the fuck out of my apartment and left, but not without asking for my number. Really? Give me a break.
Bachelor number two: the bartender. Bartenders are always an easy target. I met this one when I was out for dinner with a friend. For no particular reason the manager started buying my girlfriend and I drinks and we hung out with the staff after they closed down. Using the process of elimination, I singled out the hottest guy in the group and proceeded to get him wasted. Mission accomplished. I took him home and a week later we met for Round 2. We should have left it at Round 1, since Round 2 was the cause of The Unfortunate Limp Dick Incident, and left me with a lowered sense of self-esteem and a serious case of blue clit. He insisted it was the condom's fault, but I have a zero-tolerance policy for banging bartenders without protection. I'd have less of a chance of contracting a disease if I licked the floor of an insulated lab at the Infectious Disease Control Centre.
I've had bad sex in my life, but with the addition of this married man drama, I've never felt so positive that I treat men like shit because that's what they are. I have been advised by my friends that it's simply the young guys that are losers, and that I need to skip a couple of decades and find myself a nice 40 year-old. I don't know how I feel about older men. Most of them could probably be the fathers of the guys I usually date. The number "40" instantly reminds me of old principals, bosses, and old man stench. But before I do something crazy like swear off sex or alcohol, I'll try and get over myself and see if I can focus my efforts on someone older than me. I guess this means I'll have to change my old habits. Instead of getting wasted, I'll get a mortgage. Instead of fucking random idiots, I'll fuck random intelligent people. I'll be a classy idiot. It's worth a shot...
Thursday, December 29, 2011
"Fucking shit crap fuck."
This might come as a surprise to you but I have another bad habit that I don't believe I've mentioned as of yet. I like to put $50s into stupid computer machines to see if I can win millions...you know, gambling. Once I won $1,500 on a penny slot machine, and I've spent about $25,000 trying to do that again. On any given night I will go to the casino, which is located mere steps from my apartment, and pay $200 - $500 to sit and stare at a machine with penguins or samurais on it, while drinking myself into oblivion. As you picture this pathetic scene, you can imagine my innate surprise when last night, I actually met a great man there.
I was minding my own beeswax and noticed a tall, handsome, well-dressed guy walk by. "He's hot" I thought to myself, and got back to my Stoli and dancing penguins. About 2 minutes later he came up behind me and asked me if I can show him how to play the slots, he's never played before. As you need the brainpower of a Brussels sprout to figure it out, I knew he just wanted to talk to (or fuck) me. Fab. We chatted for the next hour, had a couple drinks, and decided to go grab a couple more at the club next door. He was actually relatively intoxicated, and kept saying so, but he seemed to still be able to string sentences together so I went with it. After an hour of great music he finally asked if he could kiss me. Yes, yes he could, and yes, yes we did, for the next 30 minutes. He kept saying things like "how are you single?" and "I think I love you already," you know, shit that makes my ovaries wake up and realize there's still hope. This guy was perfect. He has a great job that requires him to wear a sexy uniform, he's 32, single, owns his home, works 2 blocks from my apartment, and most importantly, thinks I'm amazing. Jackpot.
Now usually when I find a man I actually think has potential to become my husband, I don't sleep with him. But for some reason I wanted to sleep with my future husband last night, just mere hours after meeting him. So after the club we headed towards my apartment so we could browse China patterns online and devour each other. On the walk from the club to my apartment, there are several stairs leading up to my building. Yes, it can be a daunting task, but I haven't actually had any complaints. Then last night, after about 5 of the 50 stairs, my future husband stops and props himself up against the cement wall and says in his sexiest, drunk tone "come here." I had no idea how my chosen reaction would change our fate.
Instead of "coming here," I told him we were just a few steps away from my place, keep going, and I charged ahead; those China patterns weren't going to choose themselves. I got to the top of the stairs and looked back and he hadn't moved. He was still standing there, folded arms and all, like he was still waiting for me to "come here." I was confused. Surely he would muster up enough strength to scale the stairs for his future wife, right? I figured if I got out of sight, he would stop waiting for me to come back down and finish his scaling of the metropolitan Alps. My apartment really was just at the top of the steps, so I went to my doorway to wait. I waited about 5 minutes and still nothing. Huh. Oh well, I figured maybe he wasn't that interested in me after all, and I headed up to my place so I would have a safe place to sit as my ovaries re-shriveled. Although I didn't have my husband's number, he had mine, so I thought he may even call me when he realized I wasn't waiting. I ate an entire box of crackers and still nothing. Oh well, time for sleep I guess. I went to bed and was actually a little happy that we didn't have sex that night. There would be plenty of time for that in our new house, we'd discuss it tomorrow when we met with the wedding planner.
Well now it's tomorrow and I haven't heard from him yet. For the first hour I was awake I was just surprised that he hadn't called to tell his wife to have a nice day. Now as I piece together the night, I'm rather concerned about his safety. My husband told me probably a total of 26 times that he was "really drunk." When I made it to the top of the stairs and looked back at him standing there with his arms folded, were his eyes even open? Was he passed out standing up? It is a rather peaceful spot, not much noise that late at night, maybe he drifted off. Or maybe he got mugged. Or murdered. Fuck. I'm such an asshole. Who leaves their drunk husband for dead on concrete stairs and then eats crackers and goes to sleep? What am I, some kind of sociopath? Great. I've gone from having a husband to either being an ex-wife or a widow in the past 24 hours. I don't need him to call me for personal reasons, I now am waiting by my phone so I know he's okay, I'm worried sick. I'm such a douchebag. Fucking shit crap fuck.
I was minding my own beeswax and noticed a tall, handsome, well-dressed guy walk by. "He's hot" I thought to myself, and got back to my Stoli and dancing penguins. About 2 minutes later he came up behind me and asked me if I can show him how to play the slots, he's never played before. As you need the brainpower of a Brussels sprout to figure it out, I knew he just wanted to talk to (or fuck) me. Fab. We chatted for the next hour, had a couple drinks, and decided to go grab a couple more at the club next door. He was actually relatively intoxicated, and kept saying so, but he seemed to still be able to string sentences together so I went with it. After an hour of great music he finally asked if he could kiss me. Yes, yes he could, and yes, yes we did, for the next 30 minutes. He kept saying things like "how are you single?" and "I think I love you already," you know, shit that makes my ovaries wake up and realize there's still hope. This guy was perfect. He has a great job that requires him to wear a sexy uniform, he's 32, single, owns his home, works 2 blocks from my apartment, and most importantly, thinks I'm amazing. Jackpot.
Now usually when I find a man I actually think has potential to become my husband, I don't sleep with him. But for some reason I wanted to sleep with my future husband last night, just mere hours after meeting him. So after the club we headed towards my apartment so we could browse China patterns online and devour each other. On the walk from the club to my apartment, there are several stairs leading up to my building. Yes, it can be a daunting task, but I haven't actually had any complaints. Then last night, after about 5 of the 50 stairs, my future husband stops and props himself up against the cement wall and says in his sexiest, drunk tone "come here." I had no idea how my chosen reaction would change our fate.
Instead of "coming here," I told him we were just a few steps away from my place, keep going, and I charged ahead; those China patterns weren't going to choose themselves. I got to the top of the stairs and looked back and he hadn't moved. He was still standing there, folded arms and all, like he was still waiting for me to "come here." I was confused. Surely he would muster up enough strength to scale the stairs for his future wife, right? I figured if I got out of sight, he would stop waiting for me to come back down and finish his scaling of the metropolitan Alps. My apartment really was just at the top of the steps, so I went to my doorway to wait. I waited about 5 minutes and still nothing. Huh. Oh well, I figured maybe he wasn't that interested in me after all, and I headed up to my place so I would have a safe place to sit as my ovaries re-shriveled. Although I didn't have my husband's number, he had mine, so I thought he may even call me when he realized I wasn't waiting. I ate an entire box of crackers and still nothing. Oh well, time for sleep I guess. I went to bed and was actually a little happy that we didn't have sex that night. There would be plenty of time for that in our new house, we'd discuss it tomorrow when we met with the wedding planner.
Well now it's tomorrow and I haven't heard from him yet. For the first hour I was awake I was just surprised that he hadn't called to tell his wife to have a nice day. Now as I piece together the night, I'm rather concerned about his safety. My husband told me probably a total of 26 times that he was "really drunk." When I made it to the top of the stairs and looked back at him standing there with his arms folded, were his eyes even open? Was he passed out standing up? It is a rather peaceful spot, not much noise that late at night, maybe he drifted off. Or maybe he got mugged. Or murdered. Fuck. I'm such an asshole. Who leaves their drunk husband for dead on concrete stairs and then eats crackers and goes to sleep? What am I, some kind of sociopath? Great. I've gone from having a husband to either being an ex-wife or a widow in the past 24 hours. I don't need him to call me for personal reasons, I now am waiting by my phone so I know he's okay, I'm worried sick. I'm such a douchebag. Fucking shit crap fuck.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
The Van Gogh Epiphany
It recently came to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother. I find myself staying at home more, drinking a fraction of what I used to, and indulging in very Martha-esque homemaker activities like baking cookies and folding things. I want to be this Nice Girl, but part of me is afraid that if I down double shots of Van Gogh Espresso, one of my favourite pastimes, the Nice Girl will be out the window and I will no longer be able to obtain the newly appointed man of my dreams. I am even saving my freshly-virginized body for him in case he decides to reciprocate my love for him. I think I have really embraced this whole Nice Girl 2.0 thing, but, at times, it does prove to be difficult and I become possessed by my not-so Nice Girl.
Generally, a night out for me consists of Stoli sodas, texting hot guys I want to sleep with, (including those who have magically morphed into the "hot" category after said Stoli sodas), and some kind of bar, lounge, club, or restaurant where I will ultimately use the process of elimination to hit on the most fuckable waiter, bartender, DJ, doorman, dishwasher, or janitor in the room. I wish I was one of those girls who could enjoy a single glass of 1982 Argentinian Malbec while rejuvenating in a hot bubble bath. Instead I'm the kind of girl who feels that having a single drink is a waste of calories, so I generally opt to drink so much alcohol that you wouldn't be able to pay me to properly pronounce "calories." So for the past few weeks it's been easier to just avoid the nectar of the Gods and stay out of trouble. I was bound to finally explode...tis' the fucking season. But last night wasn't my usual Sheen-style whooping. Instead, I had an epiphany.
After three glasses of wine and Van Goghs in the double digits, it occurred to me that I'm crazy. For the past two months every reason I had to believe that the man of my dreams was interested in me was based 100% on estrogen-charged assumptions. You know what I mean...us girls like to twist around everything you men say to cater to our undying egos that need to constantly believe that you're ultimately in love with us. Yes, all the "signs" are there, but has he actually said anything to justify my looking at wedding dresses and preparing floral arrangements? Fuck no. Here I am saving myself for a man who has yet to show any clear signs that he wants to see me naked. It's interesting that such a rational epiphany came after a bottle of vodka...I must be some kind of fucking genius when I'm functioning on 0 ccs of the shit.
So here I am it's a fresh day and a fresh mindset. Well actually I'm really hungover and feel like shit, but the mindset is still intact. Bravo. My vagina is back open for business.
Generally, a night out for me consists of Stoli sodas, texting hot guys I want to sleep with, (including those who have magically morphed into the "hot" category after said Stoli sodas), and some kind of bar, lounge, club, or restaurant where I will ultimately use the process of elimination to hit on the most fuckable waiter, bartender, DJ, doorman, dishwasher, or janitor in the room. I wish I was one of those girls who could enjoy a single glass of 1982 Argentinian Malbec while rejuvenating in a hot bubble bath. Instead I'm the kind of girl who feels that having a single drink is a waste of calories, so I generally opt to drink so much alcohol that you wouldn't be able to pay me to properly pronounce "calories." So for the past few weeks it's been easier to just avoid the nectar of the Gods and stay out of trouble. I was bound to finally explode...tis' the fucking season. But last night wasn't my usual Sheen-style whooping. Instead, I had an epiphany.
After three glasses of wine and Van Goghs in the double digits, it occurred to me that I'm crazy. For the past two months every reason I had to believe that the man of my dreams was interested in me was based 100% on estrogen-charged assumptions. You know what I mean...us girls like to twist around everything you men say to cater to our undying egos that need to constantly believe that you're ultimately in love with us. Yes, all the "signs" are there, but has he actually said anything to justify my looking at wedding dresses and preparing floral arrangements? Fuck no. Here I am saving myself for a man who has yet to show any clear signs that he wants to see me naked. It's interesting that such a rational epiphany came after a bottle of vodka...I must be some kind of fucking genius when I'm functioning on 0 ccs of the shit.
So here I am it's a fresh day and a fresh mindset. Well actually I'm really hungover and feel like shit, but the mindset is still intact. Bravo. My vagina is back open for business.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Ghosts from Neighbours Past
No, I am not on my deathbed. No, I have not been so wasted for the past 4 weeks that I haven't been able to type. The weirdest thing has happened...for the past month, I've been acting like a grown-up. Well, I'm assuming I am, I've never actually done this before. I go to the gym every day, I bake cookies, I build gingerbread houses, I change my apartment decor to match the season, and I keep my legs closed, you know...like a lady. In fact, it has recently come to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother, and I now find myself saving my virgin body for him in case it ever pans out. Can I call myself a virgin if I haven't had sex for a month? I think so. Is it possible that four weeks of being a Nice Girl have changed me forever? I also think so...
Since The Nice Girl Project 2.0 is going so swimmingly, I'm going to have to share with you something that happened to me about 3 years ago...not only is it an amazing story, but I have no new ones to share on account of my new-found Angelicism.
My apartment building is about 20 feet away from the next building in my complex. When I first moved in, I had noticed that my "neighbour" in the next building liked to sun tan regularly on his patio. He had a nice body and he was on his balcony frequently, so I definitely noticed him. A couple of months after I moved in, my sister and I were celebrating my birthday with champagne on my balcony, and my shirtless neighbour came outside to his. To be honest the details are fuzzy, but somehow we started hollering across balconies and somehow managed to have a flirtatious discussion at 1000 decibels, that I'm sure we shared with the rest of the complex. Meh. Anyhoo, at one point, he asked for my number and we stopped the madness. We chatted that night for about 20 minutes then I went and got hammered, as I do, for my birthday.
Over the next couple of weeks balcony neighbour Joe and I continued to chat on the phone, and finally after several conversations and a huge bottle of Zimbabwe's finest wine, I invited him over. About 5 minutes later, he knocked on my door. I opened it. HO-LY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
As soon as I opened the door I realized I knew Joe. I knew Joe really well. I knew Joe really, REALLY well, for one night in 2005. That's right...I had already fucked neighbour Joe. We stared at each other and both of our jaws hit the fresh, snap-together-laminate flooring. He came in, and we continued to drink until we lost all perception of how slutty we both are. We never hooked up again and remain friends to this day, how could you not, it's way too funny...and I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness ever since.
Since The Nice Girl Project 2.0 is going so swimmingly, I'm going to have to share with you something that happened to me about 3 years ago...not only is it an amazing story, but I have no new ones to share on account of my new-found Angelicism.
My apartment building is about 20 feet away from the next building in my complex. When I first moved in, I had noticed that my "neighbour" in the next building liked to sun tan regularly on his patio. He had a nice body and he was on his balcony frequently, so I definitely noticed him. A couple of months after I moved in, my sister and I were celebrating my birthday with champagne on my balcony, and my shirtless neighbour came outside to his. To be honest the details are fuzzy, but somehow we started hollering across balconies and somehow managed to have a flirtatious discussion at 1000 decibels, that I'm sure we shared with the rest of the complex. Meh. Anyhoo, at one point, he asked for my number and we stopped the madness. We chatted that night for about 20 minutes then I went and got hammered, as I do, for my birthday.
Over the next couple of weeks balcony neighbour Joe and I continued to chat on the phone, and finally after several conversations and a huge bottle of Zimbabwe's finest wine, I invited him over. About 5 minutes later, he knocked on my door. I opened it. HO-LY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
As soon as I opened the door I realized I knew Joe. I knew Joe really well. I knew Joe really, REALLY well, for one night in 2005. That's right...I had already fucked neighbour Joe. We stared at each other and both of our jaws hit the fresh, snap-together-laminate flooring. He came in, and we continued to drink until we lost all perception of how slutty we both are. We never hooked up again and remain friends to this day, how could you not, it's way too funny...and I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness ever since.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Those Who Masturbate in Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones
Remember the DJ from a couple of months back? He sent me scandalous videos of himself which I used to have a sexual relationship with myself while I was out of town on business. Yes, that one. Well, we have actually remained friends ever since. It's kind of strange actually...we started the relationship with mutual masturbation, and to this day I've hung out with him several times, but have never even kissed the guy. So I assumed we were just friends and I was happy with that, particularly because I have pairs of socks older than him, and I'm more interested in finding a boyfriend than another fuck buddy. (Well, when I'm sober anyways.)
While I was away recently, the DJ texted me almost daily. By the end of my three-week trip, he was acting more and more like he liked me, you know...more than a friend. Just to confirm my intuition, he said that when I got back he wanted to come to my place and make me dinner. That's lovely. I said yes to that, but I knew I'd have to make sure he knows that this seriously can't go anywhere. I figured I'd tell him right after we had sex for dessert. Perfect.
So a couple of days after I got home he said he was super hungry and actually had to quickly talk to me about something, and asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. It seemed pretty casual so I agreed and we met near my place. He had a beer...I had 5 vodkas...he ate...I ate...finally, after my 6th vodka, he starts talking seriously. Okay, I'm listening. I knew what he was going to say anyways. He was going to find out if I had a problem with the age difference because he was starting to like me. The truth is, I didn't really know. I hadn't been thinking of him that way, so I would have to just go with the flow and see what happened. So he starts..."I just want you to know, that I will never date you." I'm actually surprised my eyeballs remained in their sockets since I don't think I have ever opened them so wide in my entire life as a result of severe shock and dismay. Was this fucking idiot for realsies? Where do I begin? During the rest of the one-sided conversation where he continued to drone on about all the reasons why he didn't like me, I actually remained relatively quiet, not due to my strength and self-control, but instead due to my loss of brain function in response to such a ludicrous turn of events. According to DJ I started acting "quiet" and he took me home
Like any normal human who has just been pre-dumped by a fetus that she didn't like in the first place, I went out and got wasted. I then called an old friend (a.k.a. the one-socked, best friend of my upstairs neighbour that I have fucked the shit out of on numerous occasions), and banged him into the wee hours. The next morning I had completely forgotten about the entire DJ event, so thank goodness he texted me to remind me...I woke up to a text from the DJ saying "I've deleted everything that has anything to do with you, contact info, pics, etc. and I'd appreciate it if you can do the same." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a text in my life. At the same time, I was hurt that after months of being friends, I was clearly so disposable...ouch. For sure, stand by Mr. Mixed-signal-hot-cold-DJ-fucking-freakazoid, while I get right on your request to delete you from my life. I wrote back "Consider yourself deleted...well, 99% of you anyways. Guys trying to be famous DJs shouldn't piss off girls that have videos of them jerking off." He attempted damage control for the next 30 minutes solid, but sadly this damaged bitch could not be controlled. I ended the madness with my final text "stop texting me and delete my number you stupid shitbag." That worked.
Copies of the video are available for FREE to anyone who requests it, and to those of you who don't request it, chances are, you 'll be getting it anyways.
While I was away recently, the DJ texted me almost daily. By the end of my three-week trip, he was acting more and more like he liked me, you know...more than a friend. Just to confirm my intuition, he said that when I got back he wanted to come to my place and make me dinner. That's lovely. I said yes to that, but I knew I'd have to make sure he knows that this seriously can't go anywhere. I figured I'd tell him right after we had sex for dessert. Perfect.
So a couple of days after I got home he said he was super hungry and actually had to quickly talk to me about something, and asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. It seemed pretty casual so I agreed and we met near my place. He had a beer...I had 5 vodkas...he ate...I ate...finally, after my 6th vodka, he starts talking seriously. Okay, I'm listening. I knew what he was going to say anyways. He was going to find out if I had a problem with the age difference because he was starting to like me. The truth is, I didn't really know. I hadn't been thinking of him that way, so I would have to just go with the flow and see what happened. So he starts..."I just want you to know, that I will never date you." I'm actually surprised my eyeballs remained in their sockets since I don't think I have ever opened them so wide in my entire life as a result of severe shock and dismay. Was this fucking idiot for realsies? Where do I begin? During the rest of the one-sided conversation where he continued to drone on about all the reasons why he didn't like me, I actually remained relatively quiet, not due to my strength and self-control, but instead due to my loss of brain function in response to such a ludicrous turn of events. According to DJ I started acting "quiet" and he took me home
Like any normal human who has just been pre-dumped by a fetus that she didn't like in the first place, I went out and got wasted. I then called an old friend (a.k.a. the one-socked, best friend of my upstairs neighbour that I have fucked the shit out of on numerous occasions), and banged him into the wee hours. The next morning I had completely forgotten about the entire DJ event, so thank goodness he texted me to remind me...I woke up to a text from the DJ saying "I've deleted everything that has anything to do with you, contact info, pics, etc. and I'd appreciate it if you can do the same." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a text in my life. At the same time, I was hurt that after months of being friends, I was clearly so disposable...ouch. For sure, stand by Mr. Mixed-signal-hot-cold-DJ-fucking-freakazoid, while I get right on your request to delete you from my life. I wrote back "Consider yourself deleted...well, 99% of you anyways. Guys trying to be famous DJs shouldn't piss off girls that have videos of them jerking off." He attempted damage control for the next 30 minutes solid, but sadly this damaged bitch could not be controlled. I ended the madness with my final text "stop texting me and delete my number you stupid shitbag." That worked.
Copies of the video are available for FREE to anyone who requests it, and to those of you who don't request it, chances are, you 'll be getting it anyways.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
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.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
"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.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, June 20, 2011
The Secret to a Man's Heart
Well, I finally did it. I found the perfect balance between the Nice Girl and my raging hormones. If all goes according to plan I will have a new boyfriend in a couple of weeks.
About a week ago I had a party and my neighbour and his friends popped in for a few minutes. One of his friends was yummmmmy. Okay, I know what you're thinking, another neighbour story?? I can't help it if my neighbours and their friends, brothers, fathers, and goldfish find me irresistible, so shut up and just keep reading. We had a few minutes of flirtatious conversation and nothing much came of it, especially since although he was gorgeous and had an accent that made me wet myself, I was more concerned with the other guests at my party and the amount of glass they were breaking. Hottie McAccent went back to my neighbour's place and that was that. That night, in keeping with my "elegant slut" status, I ended up having sex with my OTHER neighbour's best friend...again. Fuck. Actually thanks to Aunt Flo we didn't ACTUALLY have sex, so the next day when other neighbour asked "did you bang my best friend?", I was able to answer "no I did not" without my nose shooting out like I just snorted five rails of Cialis in Gepetto's workshop. I felt no need to add, "but I licked his balls while we both masturbated."
Anyhoo, back to Hottie McAccent. So three days after my party there was another party in the building, and guess who showed up? Well of course me...as soon as I hear the word "party" I grab the champagne and Silly String and I'm on my way. And...Hottie McAccent. The second I saw him I remembered why I was so attracted to him in the first place. Seriously. He's gorgeous, smart, affectionate, and just the perfect amount of controlling. Anytime any guy talked to me he would come and touch my leg or rub my arm or something, clearly giving off the "she's mine" vibe. I love that. In fact, I wouldn't have been the least bit offended if he whipped out his penis and peed all around my section of the couch. That night I kissed him a few times, and he asked me to go downstairs to my place, but I couldn't go. I had too many of my own friends that I invited to the party, and I didn't want to bail on everyone. Besides, we just met, geez! What, did he think we were going to go have sex or something? What would ever give him that idea? So after a few amazing kisses and hours of conversation, he left...with my number. That's the first time in months I've watched a guy walk away from me with blue balls.
The next day he asked me to go on a date. YES! I was very excited, and we went out last night. I'm not going to share the details of the amazing date or how I'm already imagining myself converting to Judaism and marrying this man, let's just skip to the part where I manage to show some restraint and act like a Nice Girl...ish. Thanks to the fact that I only had 2 glasses of wine on our date, I still had some sense about me, and I knew I wanted to see this man again. I was NOT going to have sex with him. 20 minutes into our make-out session I could see where this was going...directly into my vagina. So I tell him "I like you and I want to see you again so I don't want to do anything too fast." This was about the most shocking thing I've ever said; even more shocking is that I meant it. So we made out for a while longer and we were both getting far too excited. In an attempt to ensure my pants stayed on, I figured I would take care of him. So down I went. 10 minutes later, after being told I was "amazing" about seven times, I swallowed and came up for air. I have actually never done that before for a guy that wasn't my boyfriend, but I figured I would bend the rules since this was a special occasion: mine and my husband's first date. After my "amazing" performance, I laid back down and we cuddled and talked for about half an hour. It was late and I had to go, and he kept saying he didn't want me to go - nice. Then, something wonderful happened. Hottie McAccent asked me out on a second date. That's right, whilst on the first date, I was asked on a second one, and even given a time and place. Wow.
This is it. I've discovered the secret to a man's heart. Blowjobs.
About a week ago I had a party and my neighbour and his friends popped in for a few minutes. One of his friends was yummmmmy. Okay, I know what you're thinking, another neighbour story?? I can't help it if my neighbours and their friends, brothers, fathers, and goldfish find me irresistible, so shut up and just keep reading. We had a few minutes of flirtatious conversation and nothing much came of it, especially since although he was gorgeous and had an accent that made me wet myself, I was more concerned with the other guests at my party and the amount of glass they were breaking. Hottie McAccent went back to my neighbour's place and that was that. That night, in keeping with my "elegant slut" status, I ended up having sex with my OTHER neighbour's best friend...again. Fuck. Actually thanks to Aunt Flo we didn't ACTUALLY have sex, so the next day when other neighbour asked "did you bang my best friend?", I was able to answer "no I did not" without my nose shooting out like I just snorted five rails of Cialis in Gepetto's workshop. I felt no need to add, "but I licked his balls while we both masturbated."
Anyhoo, back to Hottie McAccent. So three days after my party there was another party in the building, and guess who showed up? Well of course me...as soon as I hear the word "party" I grab the champagne and Silly String and I'm on my way. And...Hottie McAccent. The second I saw him I remembered why I was so attracted to him in the first place. Seriously. He's gorgeous, smart, affectionate, and just the perfect amount of controlling. Anytime any guy talked to me he would come and touch my leg or rub my arm or something, clearly giving off the "she's mine" vibe. I love that. In fact, I wouldn't have been the least bit offended if he whipped out his penis and peed all around my section of the couch. That night I kissed him a few times, and he asked me to go downstairs to my place, but I couldn't go. I had too many of my own friends that I invited to the party, and I didn't want to bail on everyone. Besides, we just met, geez! What, did he think we were going to go have sex or something? What would ever give him that idea? So after a few amazing kisses and hours of conversation, he left...with my number. That's the first time in months I've watched a guy walk away from me with blue balls.
The next day he asked me to go on a date. YES! I was very excited, and we went out last night. I'm not going to share the details of the amazing date or how I'm already imagining myself converting to Judaism and marrying this man, let's just skip to the part where I manage to show some restraint and act like a Nice Girl...ish. Thanks to the fact that I only had 2 glasses of wine on our date, I still had some sense about me, and I knew I wanted to see this man again. I was NOT going to have sex with him. 20 minutes into our make-out session I could see where this was going...directly into my vagina. So I tell him "I like you and I want to see you again so I don't want to do anything too fast." This was about the most shocking thing I've ever said; even more shocking is that I meant it. So we made out for a while longer and we were both getting far too excited. In an attempt to ensure my pants stayed on, I figured I would take care of him. So down I went. 10 minutes later, after being told I was "amazing" about seven times, I swallowed and came up for air. I have actually never done that before for a guy that wasn't my boyfriend, but I figured I would bend the rules since this was a special occasion: mine and my husband's first date. After my "amazing" performance, I laid back down and we cuddled and talked for about half an hour. It was late and I had to go, and he kept saying he didn't want me to go - nice. Then, something wonderful happened. Hottie McAccent asked me out on a second date. That's right, whilst on the first date, I was asked on a second one, and even given a time and place. Wow.
This is it. I've discovered the secret to a man's heart. Blowjobs.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
From Doggie Bag to Barf Bag
My mother is always telling me to be less picky and to give guys a chance that I'm not immediately attracted to because "you never know." What a crock of shit. This is what happens when you do that:
About a month ago my sister and I were having drinks at one of our favourite restaurants. We sat at the bar so we could flirt with the hot bartenders as per ushe, and about 3 cocktails in a very average and boring guy dressed in a business suit sat next to my sister. Throughout the evening he told us he was a very busy lawyer and lived in the city among other things. While my sister went to the washroom, he took it upon himself to ask me out for drinks sometime. Here was my big chance to volunteer my valuable time for a good cause: Very Unexciting Lawyers/Vagabonds Anonymous, or VULVA. I agreed that we could grab a drink sometime. Whoopdie-frickin'-do. Over the next 2 weeks Vulva texted me several times and seemed rather eager to meet. I was flattered and thought maybe there was something to this VULVA thing. As I get older I find that my mother is almost always right. Perhaps Vulva and I would fall in love and have kids and I would be a happily married mother living in a rich neighbourhood with all our lawyer money. But, this is me and of course that didn't happen.
First of all he wanted to meet on a night that my favourite sports team was playing a huge playoff game. He suggested we go watch the game somewhere. Was he fucking kidding me? I don't even make plans to hang out for 3 hours with people I LIKE, let alone the VULVA spokesmodel that I'd said a total of 20 words to. I agreed anyways so I could get the date over with and enjoy the rest of my weekend. I got to the lounge first. When he showed up a few minutes later, he was in runners. Wow. Impressive. He said "hi" inexpressively and sat down. Hmm. Now I don't expect much, but after 2 weeks of persuing me and making me feel like a gift from Allah, I was expecting maybe a hug, a pat on the back, a high-five even, but nothing. So he awkwardly sits down and orders a beer. Now I may not have chemistry with every guy I agree to go on a date with, but one thing I can always guarantee is that we have a fun time together. But not Vulva. Holy fuck this guy was boring. I had to carry the entire conversation and after an hour I finally gave up. I didn't give a shit and wasn't about to waste any more energy on this dud. He spent more time staring at my rack than my face. I'm sure this may happen a lot, I have a great rack, but please, don't let me catch you for fuck's sake. The way this guy ogled at me you would have thought he had just been released on probation. I tried to block it out of my head by downing copious amounts of vodka.
We ordered dinner and I ate my entire steak and all the side dishes, and Vulva had about 6 bites of his food and asked the server to wrap the rest in a doggie bag. I don't trust a man that doesn't eat. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever met one before. My favourite part of the date was when he finally did decide to speak after 3 Stella Lights. He told me that his best friend was a high school teacher, and he didn't know how he managed those kids. I agreed "Ya, kids are nuts these days with their attitudes, sex, and drugs...yikes"...but he didn't mean that. He corrected me..."Oh, no I mean the way the young girls dress these days you could really get into a lot of trouble." Now I was convinced I was sitting with a pedophile. The second time he decided to speak he told me that he's "not actually a lawyer"...he's a "law student." Now I'm not one to judge, and if he just said that in the first place I wouldn't have cared, but to bring me there under false pretenses was unacceptable. An average boring lawyer? Maybe. An average boring student? No thanks.Throughout the night he asked me several times if he was "creeping me out." If you have to ask, the answer is yes.
I'd had about 5 vodkas and 2 glasses of wine, and Vulva had about 4 beers. The playoff game was coming to a close, thank fucking God. Vulva paid the bill and asked me if I wanted to go to his place for a drink. I was so incredibly shocked that someone could be stupid enough to perceive the notion that anyone would want to prolong this disaster, that I momentarily lost all sense of reality blurted out "sure." WHAT...THE...FUCK...did I just DO??? I immediately started telling him I was pretty tired and I thought we should just have one more drink somewhere close by, but he insisted. I told him okay, but warned him that I was leaving after one drink because I was really tired, (aka my friends were around the corner and I was ready to actually go have a good time, fake-lawyer-free). He agreed and off we went. The entire walk there I was trying to figure out how to get the fuck out of it. Oh well, one drink won't kill me. Unless he is a sex-crazed jailbird and is willing to murder me just to get a peek at the goods. Fuck.
We get there and he immediately asks if he can have "just one kiss." Was this guy for fucking realsies? On what planet does cringing and "I'm tired" mean I'm into you? Fuck. This was all my fault. I should have never agreed to go to this potential house of horrors. Luckily, after I turned him down for a vial kiss, he told me he had heartburn and excused himself. He proceeded to the bathroom where I heard him vomit for the next 5 minutes thanks to the paper-thin structure of his ancient apartment complex. Those 4 beers must have really put this idiot over the edge. I've never been so excited to hear someone vomit. This of course set the scene for my prompt exit. I had my shoes on as he came out of the bathroom, his eyes all red and bloodshot..whew, ya that Stella Light will really hit ya hard, you really gotta be careful there. Fucking lightweight. Anyhoo, shoes on, off I scurried into the sunset, thanking Allah for not allowing me to be murdered by Vulva, who had, over the past 4 hours gone from "fine" to "incredibly creepy."
I felt filthy. I've never felt so filthy without having done a single thing. I needed a scalding hot shower and a body brush stat. So I ran home and did just that...after getting drunk with my friends of course.
Fuck was my mom ever wrong. From now on I'm trusting my gut and only giving hotties a chance.
About a month ago my sister and I were having drinks at one of our favourite restaurants. We sat at the bar so we could flirt with the hot bartenders as per ushe, and about 3 cocktails in a very average and boring guy dressed in a business suit sat next to my sister. Throughout the evening he told us he was a very busy lawyer and lived in the city among other things. While my sister went to the washroom, he took it upon himself to ask me out for drinks sometime. Here was my big chance to volunteer my valuable time for a good cause: Very Unexciting Lawyers/Vagabonds Anonymous, or VULVA. I agreed that we could grab a drink sometime. Whoopdie-frickin'-do. Over the next 2 weeks Vulva texted me several times and seemed rather eager to meet. I was flattered and thought maybe there was something to this VULVA thing. As I get older I find that my mother is almost always right. Perhaps Vulva and I would fall in love and have kids and I would be a happily married mother living in a rich neighbourhood with all our lawyer money. But, this is me and of course that didn't happen.
First of all he wanted to meet on a night that my favourite sports team was playing a huge playoff game. He suggested we go watch the game somewhere. Was he fucking kidding me? I don't even make plans to hang out for 3 hours with people I LIKE, let alone the VULVA spokesmodel that I'd said a total of 20 words to. I agreed anyways so I could get the date over with and enjoy the rest of my weekend. I got to the lounge first. When he showed up a few minutes later, he was in runners. Wow. Impressive. He said "hi" inexpressively and sat down. Hmm. Now I don't expect much, but after 2 weeks of persuing me and making me feel like a gift from Allah, I was expecting maybe a hug, a pat on the back, a high-five even, but nothing. So he awkwardly sits down and orders a beer. Now I may not have chemistry with every guy I agree to go on a date with, but one thing I can always guarantee is that we have a fun time together. But not Vulva. Holy fuck this guy was boring. I had to carry the entire conversation and after an hour I finally gave up. I didn't give a shit and wasn't about to waste any more energy on this dud. He spent more time staring at my rack than my face. I'm sure this may happen a lot, I have a great rack, but please, don't let me catch you for fuck's sake. The way this guy ogled at me you would have thought he had just been released on probation. I tried to block it out of my head by downing copious amounts of vodka.
We ordered dinner and I ate my entire steak and all the side dishes, and Vulva had about 6 bites of his food and asked the server to wrap the rest in a doggie bag. I don't trust a man that doesn't eat. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever met one before. My favourite part of the date was when he finally did decide to speak after 3 Stella Lights. He told me that his best friend was a high school teacher, and he didn't know how he managed those kids. I agreed "Ya, kids are nuts these days with their attitudes, sex, and drugs...yikes"...but he didn't mean that. He corrected me..."Oh, no I mean the way the young girls dress these days you could really get into a lot of trouble." Now I was convinced I was sitting with a pedophile. The second time he decided to speak he told me that he's "not actually a lawyer"...he's a "law student." Now I'm not one to judge, and if he just said that in the first place I wouldn't have cared, but to bring me there under false pretenses was unacceptable. An average boring lawyer? Maybe. An average boring student? No thanks.Throughout the night he asked me several times if he was "creeping me out." If you have to ask, the answer is yes.
I'd had about 5 vodkas and 2 glasses of wine, and Vulva had about 4 beers. The playoff game was coming to a close, thank fucking God. Vulva paid the bill and asked me if I wanted to go to his place for a drink. I was so incredibly shocked that someone could be stupid enough to perceive the notion that anyone would want to prolong this disaster, that I momentarily lost all sense of reality blurted out "sure." WHAT...THE...FUCK...did I just DO??? I immediately started telling him I was pretty tired and I thought we should just have one more drink somewhere close by, but he insisted. I told him okay, but warned him that I was leaving after one drink because I was really tired, (aka my friends were around the corner and I was ready to actually go have a good time, fake-lawyer-free). He agreed and off we went. The entire walk there I was trying to figure out how to get the fuck out of it. Oh well, one drink won't kill me. Unless he is a sex-crazed jailbird and is willing to murder me just to get a peek at the goods. Fuck.
We get there and he immediately asks if he can have "just one kiss." Was this guy for fucking realsies? On what planet does cringing and "I'm tired" mean I'm into you? Fuck. This was all my fault. I should have never agreed to go to this potential house of horrors. Luckily, after I turned him down for a vial kiss, he told me he had heartburn and excused himself. He proceeded to the bathroom where I heard him vomit for the next 5 minutes thanks to the paper-thin structure of his ancient apartment complex. Those 4 beers must have really put this idiot over the edge. I've never been so excited to hear someone vomit. This of course set the scene for my prompt exit. I had my shoes on as he came out of the bathroom, his eyes all red and bloodshot..whew, ya that Stella Light will really hit ya hard, you really gotta be careful there. Fucking lightweight. Anyhoo, shoes on, off I scurried into the sunset, thanking Allah for not allowing me to be murdered by Vulva, who had, over the past 4 hours gone from "fine" to "incredibly creepy."
I felt filthy. I've never felt so filthy without having done a single thing. I needed a scalding hot shower and a body brush stat. So I ran home and did just that...after getting drunk with my friends of course.
Fuck was my mom ever wrong. From now on I'm trusting my gut and only giving hotties a chance.
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