Posts Tagged ‘sex

I had dinner tonight with two couples.  Yup. Two couples and me. I had not wanted to go at all,  but it was a friend’s birthday and I had no legitimate reason not to go. So there I was – the oddball. The single. The always alone. They didn’t make me feel this way though, it’s my own insecurity coming out.

Of the two couples,  one is a ‘we’er – “we went here” or “we think this.” There’s only so much of that that *I* can take before I feel like punching something.

But they met on tinder and are moving in together and good for them. I can’t begrudge anyone that happiness.

Meanwhile, over the course of the last three weeks I’ve had three guys (two married men and one in a committed relationship) tell me how their significant others have told them to go find sex elsewhere. 

What the fuck.

How could you tell the person that you chose to be with that they should get their intimacy elsewhere?  I don’t get it. But all three guys says the same thing: sex doesn’t matter to her, so she thinks this is the best option.

To their credit,  none of them want to screw around outside their relationship. They’ve just resigned themselves to a lifetime of unhappiness.

It’s tough to see and realize that I may need to make similar choices.  I don’t know that I’ll ever find what I’m looking for,  or if I even know what that is anymore.  So maybe I just need to take what I can get (aka, guy from Philly) and be marginally satisfied.  It seems no matter where you start, that’s where you end up. You’re either alone-alone or in a relationship-alone. I don’t know which is worse.


Honestly, if these weren’t my own stories, I wouldn’t even believe them at this point.  But I swear, every word I write is true, so buckle in for the next adventure/horror story.

I met Hubba Hubba for dinner last night after a day of trading funny/sexy/cute texts.  He walks in to the restaurant looking HOT.  Well dressed and as cute as I remember.

We both order the same thing, and have a fun chat about nothing important. He tells me he worked out for 3 hours (WTF) and ate a whole pizza right before he came to dinner.

He is possibly not as smart as I gave him credit for…

Half-way through dinner, he goes to the bathroom…. I am seriously thinking he’s bulimic at this point. But, he comes back and as we finish up, he suggests another place to go drinking and thinks I should park my car at his place and we can walk over together.

I point out that it seems like a ploy to get in my pants, and he laughs and says, super sexily:

I’m not trying to convince you to sleep with me. You made it clear you weren’t going to. I like you. And I like that you’re a challenge.

Sigh. I get what he’s saying, but it’s such a double-edged sword (no pun intended). If I had slept with him already, a la The Bod, then the chase is over and it’s no longer fun. If I haven’t slept with him, then it’s just fun until the conquest happens.

Seriously, does my personality suck that bad that nobody wants to stick around longer than that?!?!!? I’m starting to get a complex.

Anyway, we discussed over dinner how much he hates to talk on the phone, which is important later. We walk out, he kisses me at the car, and I drive to his place to pick him up and go to the next bar (just a few blocks over) together.

I wait a LONG time in front of his place and then through a series of miscommunications on text, because he will not fucking pick up the phone, I end up at the bar because I thought he was there, while he was actually still waiting at his condo for me to come get him.

So I’m at the bar, and he’s supposedly heading over, except it’s been a really long time AGAIN.

I finally get this text:

Can we plan a different night for drinks. Don’t think I’ll be much fun tonight.

Ummm…. that is not the text you send when drinks have been already planned and one party is already at the chosen location.

I was fucking pissed.

So I write back:

So I should leave because you’re not coming here?

He responds:

Yeah I’m really sorry. I’m feeling horrible. I’ll make it up to ya….

I left and came home. Then an hour later, I get this:

Hey, I’m feeling pretty drained and kinda sick in the stomach region.

It seems to me that the texts came out of order, because that last one should’ve come first, right? Or maybe he was just covering for himself or maybe he’s just a dummy.

I texted him to feel better, and I later heard this from him:

Thanks. I just threw up for an hour but a bit better now.


So he was literally in the bathroom the entire time he wasn’t showing up to drinks. I wonder if he has some weird IBS, what with all the restroom visits during dinner?? Maybe he’s my soulmate.

Or maybe he’s doing cocaine every time he goes, which is why it takes so long. Hell if I know anything anymore.

In any case, not surprisingly, my stomach was all sorts of jacked up last night after dinner too. The pasta didn’t set well with either of us, though I’m willing to bet his was due to a ridiculous amount of food in his tummy and mine was my usual issues.

Anyway, I did cry after I got home, and was pooping. (The irony.) Truthfully, I assumed he didn’t show up because he knew he wasn’t getting laid.

Now that it’s been 24 hours, I think he probably was legitimately sick, which is excusable. What’s not excusable is his inability to PICK UP THE PHONE and tell me that. I guess he was probably embarrassed? If he really wants to make it up to me, he can ask and figure it out (flowers, a massage, chocolates would be a start).

But I’m not holding my breath.



Yesterday, I did a bit of shopping, even though I’m not supposed to be shopping at all. Oops.

Anyway, the cashiers both happened to be young gentlemen, probably in their late teens, definitely no older than 20, and I overheard them talking about Kanye being on Jimmy Kimmel’s show.  (Sidenote: I actually watched that night, and he (Kanye) was freaking exhausting! How can one person have an opinion on EVERYTHING? Doesn’t it get tiring at some point to care SO MUCH about SUCH STUPID STUFF?)

So when I went upfront to purchase my new clothes that I don’t need, I mentioned I overheard them talk about Kanye and then this happened:

Young cashier #1:

“Yeah, I think he’s going through menopause. Probably because he’s married to a Kardashian. He’s so cranky!”

Young cashier #1, again:

“And it turns out Lamar Odom passed his drug test! He’s not doing drugs. He’s just crazy because of that family!”

I’m absolutely giggling at this point, and then, this gets said:

Young cashier #2:

“I mean, look at Taylor Swift. She just dates guys to write songs about them when they break-up. Maybe if all those guys dump you, it’s YOU who’s the problem, not them?”

I seriously have new found hope for the future. They were awesome. And so efficient at checking me out as well! AND FOLDED MY CLOTHES BETTER THAN I EVER WILL! It’s the little things that make me happy.

BUT… let’s contrast that with the guys that are MY age.

I met a friend of a friend when I was in Dar es Salaam, and we ended up having dinner with a bunch of his friends. It was really fun and awesome and we were all well into multiple drinks, when the friend of a friend of a friend says this:

“Yeah, I gotta pick this girl up at the airport tomorrow and we’re going to Zanzibar for the weekend. Siiiigggghhhhhhh. I’m not even excited.”

Then he looks at me and goes,

“You know, if you want to keep a guy interested, don’t have sex with him.”

OMG. IS THAT WHAT I’M DOING WRONG? WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELL! I should just string someone along because that’s the only way to keep them interested?  I mean, COME ON.   (Although, yes, it’s clearly true and as I told him, I’ve learned that lesson more than I’d like to admit.)

And then, because shit like that isn’t bad enough to hear, I got a final email from the last guy my parents wanted me to talk to, and it said this:

“Hey, so I just want you to know that I’m really looking for someone 3-4 years younger than me. Thanks, and good luck in your search.”


First of all, can he not read? My age and birth-date were readily available for him to see in the first email exchange. Secondly, please tell me what difference those 3 years makes?


And it’s not even that I actually want to talk to him, or date him, or have sex with him, but it’s fucking offensive that WE’RE THE SAME AGE BUT I’M TOO OLD.


However…… it is Friday night, I just finished doing dishes, and am watching a Bon Jovi concert on VH1 classic.  Fuck it. Bring on the Ensure, bitches…. just lace it with some vodka.





I went to a big two-day concert in the park here this weekend — side note: I realized I’m too old for this – I hate porta potties and I hate entitled little shits whose parents clearly paid for their tickets but act like they own the world. Luckily the shows were good and the drinks were strong. I would go back, but only as VIP.  😉

Anyway – back to the magic ring. On the first day, we had just gotten there and were about to go up the hill to grab some drinks and food, and all of a sudden I feel someone kind of grab me, but keep moving. I thought it was a friend of mine just goofing around.

Turns out, IT WAS SEIZES!!!!!  I ran into SEIZES!!! AND. HE. IS. GETTING. MARRIED.  To the girl he cheated on – and yeah, he cheated with me (and probably others – I don’t think I’m that special in that regard).

We talked a bit and they’re getting married in spring of next year, and I asked him flat out if he still cheats on her, and with a wink and a nudge, he said, “NO! Of course not! I’m offended you asked!”   Uh, right…..

He finally got a job as well (the economy really demolished his industry for a few years), and his offices are just down the road from me – so we’re supposed to meet up for happy hour at some point. We’ll see what happens.

So then, the second night – after long lines for the porta potties, after little bitches cut said line by flirting their way to the front, after the rain and mud and cold temps – my friend and I made our way to the back of the hill, near the exit (strategically positioned so we could leave fast) and waited for RHCP to come on…

As we’re standing near the beer bucket, I notice this guy come to buy beers – and I realize I know him. I haven’t seen him in years, and I was just thinking about him a few days ago. He’s German, super cute, and we used to hang out/date for a bit.

But, there was just never any chemistry. I (surprisingly) never even had sex with him, EVEN THOUGH  we were caught in a tornado together (Yup – went downtown for this outside photography exhibit, and for the first time in the city’s history, a fucking tornado ripped through downtown. We had to haul ass, ran into a hotel lobby and I looked pretty much like a tree threw up on me. I had twigs and leaves IN my hair.)

I also met him for a weekend in Amsterdam** AND STILL NO SEX. I mean, let’s face it, there was just nothing between us, which sucks because he is sweet and nice and cute and awesome and I’m probably an idiot for not forcing it a bit more and trying harder from my side.

But none of that matters now, because as he told me, after giving me a big hug and making small talk, he and his beautiful black girlfriend (who was not very nice to us, at all) are moving to Germany together.

Fuck my life, you guys. This damn ring isn’t bring me new boys. It’s just showing me what I could’ve had and how I’m still alone and they’ve all moved on.

**AND, that stop in Amsterdam was on a layover back to the States, from Africa. It was on that flight, from Nairobi to Amsterdam, that I met British. I swear to fucking god if  this ring brings British to me, I will kick him in the balls and break his nose.  And cry, a lot.












And surprisingly, by “Shitter,” I’m actually not referring to myself.

So to back this story up: A long while back, I was dicking around with this guy. We didn’t really “date,” per se, as much as hook up when possible. He was fun, but that was about it. We had been away together, and we ordered a bottle of wine via room service and he ever so elegantly LET THE ROOM SERVICE GUY INTO THE ROOM. TO POUR THE WINE. WHILE I LAY THERE NAKED. UNDER A SHEET.   AND THEN ARGUED WITH ME ABOUT HOW MUCH TO TIP HIM: “But all I have is a $20!”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I’m naked and under white sheets that have been laundered a 1000 times. Can you please just give him something and get him OUT?

Anyway,  because I never learn my lesson the easy way, we were at my place a few weeks after that. I’d been drinking (stop the presses) and he asked me flat out about marriage and the pressure my parents were putting on me. This topic is sensitive to start with, so TO NO ONE’S SURPRISE… I teared up. Which didn’t seem to bother him out at that moment. And we also talked about how he figured he would just be single forever and how he was fine with that (we both knew that we weren’t going to be “the one” for each other).

But …. fast forward about 2 hours later, we’re in bed and he can’t get it up.


That was why he was freaked out and THAT is why he couldn’t perform.

Um… fuck. you.  I just looked at him in the darkness and was like, “Wait, whaaaaaaaaa? Are you being for real that a few tears hours ago are stopping you right now?”

And he totally insisted that yes, because I cried he couldn’t do it.

Even though I was naked, willing and ready.  And he was old as dirt and that was the REAL reason he couldn’t get it up. {Ok… he wasn’t ancient but he did forget his reading glasses at dinner one time and I had to read him the menu. Yeah… tell me what those waiters were thinking…}

He slept over for a bit until we both decided that he should leave.

But… he left me a present. Apparently his upset tummy earlier that night resulted in SKID MARKS. ON MY SHEETS. WHICH I FOUND LATER. WHEN I WAS GOING TO WASH THEM.


Anger does not begin to explain how I felt then. And now, now that I’m thinking about it again.

In any case, I recently found out that he just got engaged …. Awesome. This guy with a barely functioning penis and blame issues is marrying someone half his age.

But you know what, good for him. And, honestly, I don’t wish it was me.

But damn if it doesn’t bring up SO many feelings of sadness and resentment and concerns about why I’m NEVER the one who’s proposed to… I mean, sure, I didn’t (and don’t) want him but it’d be nice if just one fucking time it was MY decision to say “no, thanks.”  My decision to stop dating someone. My decision to break someone’s heart.

Because I’m so tired of it always being me who gets shit on (or at least, my bed). I’m tired of wondering why I’m never good enough. I’m tired of wondering why boys get so bored with me they can’t even bother to call back. I’m tired of wondering why there are so many things wrong with me that nobody wants me.

But also, I’m really tired of it being so easy for guys.

When they decide they’re ready, it’s just a matter of months until a willing girl falls into their web of promises for a lifetime together.

When a girl’s ready, she’s just … desperate.

I went to Hilton Head this past weekend with the girls for a little beach getaway.  It was perfect for what we needed – some pool time, some beach time, some drinking time and some catching-up time.

So one night we went out drinking in “The Triangle” (which is more like an octagon)….  guys…. I found the birthplace of frat boys. Everywhere you looked, it was a sea of button down shirts, khakhi pants (or shorts), and loafers. It’s like they’re hatched from the same egg and then become the same person, all variations of Brian, Bryan, Ryan, Rian. ALL THE SAME, except for the vowels.

There was this one guy, at the bar for a long time, already close to drunk when we got there.  He got to talking to my friend (who’s married and the world’s best wing-woman) and then got to talking to me. He was SUPER cute. Big gold cross necklace but I chose to ignore that for the evening. He was in jeans, and as I told him, he was just one khakhi pant away from being like everyone else there. He was slightly offended.

He asked my name, told me his (Brian), grabbed my hand and winked at me. Good god. I’m such a fucking sucker. I had a smile on my face as wide as the Grand Canyon. And then he got up, said he was going for a smoke and said I should go outside with him… I moved a little in front of him, he smacked my ass, and I may have smiled a little wider. (Side note: This is why I’m single. Because I fucking love douche bags.)

SO THEN! I stopped at my friends’ table to just let them know I was headed outside, AND HE LEFT! HE JUST WALKED OUT! WITHOUT TELLING ME WHERE HE WAS GOING!

I didn’t want to go search for him and look desperate, so I hung out with my girls.

Fast forward to a couple of hours later, I assumed he’d left for the night.  I was talking to this guy who looked Bruce Banner and his friend, Sleazy Ryan. SOMEHOW… Bruce Banner went to smoke, found my original guy, Sleazy Brian, and brought him over and says to me: “DUDE!! THIS GUY IS SUPER IN TO YOU!!!”   Yes, yes… just like all the guys that are super in to me and disappear. Awesome effect I have on them.

But at the exact same time, Bruce Banner’s friend, Sleazy Ryan, was trying to get us to go home with them and saying to me: “You guys should come over! We can drink wine! Wanna come sailing with us tomorrow? Give me your number!”

So, I gave him my number for the fuck of it, because what was I supposed to do??  Sleazy Brian sees me giving my number to Sleazy Ryan and says the following, while shaking his head at me: “It could’ve been something.”

WHAT?? IT COULD HAVE BEEN WHAT?!?!?!?! A ONE NIGHT STAND – AT MOST!  Jeez… I do love me some dumb assholes.

So then, we have this conversation. I’m pretty sure the sober bouncer right behind us hated us so much:

Sleazy Brian: “We could’ve been good, but you gave him your number.”

Me: “But… you left. And didn’t tell me where you where.”

Honestly, repeat those two sentences for about 5 minutes.  It was this endless loop of stupidity. That’s what happens when two drunk people talk.

Finally, we get up to go and he follows us out, and we kissed for a bit. He put his hand on my tummy and I pulled away. One – I haven’t worked out in 6 weeks and am not thrilled with the current shape. Two – we’d had Olive Garden for dinner and been drinking for hours. I had to poo so badly, I was worried any pressure would end the night abruptly.  Issues.

Anyway, we kissed briefly, he was super cute and I was super happy and I gave him my number. Never heard from him again.  Surprise. 😉

Oh!! BUT!!! The best part of the whole weekend? Apparently, Hilton Head is some magical land where white boys are unable to tell anyone’s age.  We were definitely the oldest in “The Triangle” by a good bit, and I’m pretty sure all the khakhi-clad boys were mid-20s. Thankfully, they thought we were too!

My friend was chatting with this guy (Sweaty Bryan, with a “Y” as he told us) – he noticed she is married and asked how old she was, she responded with the truth: “34.”   He looked SO HORRIFIED that she quickly laughed it off and said, “Ha ha!! Just kidding! I’m only 26! AND I AM THE OLDEST OF ALL THE GIRLS!”

LOL!! Gotta love her 🙂

And then when we went paddle boarding the next morning (completely hung over), our instructor, who’s in college himself, asks: “So are you girls in school?”

Us: “Yes… yes we are.”  We did confess eventually, but damn, you guys. Cute fratty white boys who think I’m still in college, or at the oldest, mid-20s? I may be in Hilton Head every weekend.

Black may not crack, but Brown don’t get tore-down.

I feel like the young lady, but look like the old hag. Sigh.

I feel like the young lady, but look like the old hag. Sigh.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 280 other followers


%d bloggers like this: