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Wednesday, November 30, 2011

This year in Nonline Dating: Third Quarter

I was filling out a questionnaire for a new online dating website and up came, "I am very sensitive to people's feelings and needs."  My options are strongly disagree, disagree, agree, and strongly agree.  Strangely, there was no option for, "Agree, unless their feelings and needs are stupid."  Because that was the first thing that came to my mind.  Does that mean I should've picked agree?  Perhaps I shouldn't be online dating.  But then I wouldn't have these stories.

Here's what July, August and September brought:

Dear (user name): You think a good first date is kayaking in Sausalito?  Do you also think it's a good idea to hit me over the head with your paddle and dump my body in the bay?  Yeah, that's what I thought.

Dear (user name): You said to ask you anything.  I have two questions.  One, do you know what a comma is?  And two, have you ever heard of a run-on sentence?

Dear (user name): I think you meant to say "in other words," not "another words."

Dear (user name): Do you like to go to the gym?  It wasn't clear because you only  mentioned it five times in your profile.  Maybe a sixth time would really hammer it in properly that you are obsessed (or at least want people to think you're obsessed) with the gym.

This one guy said on his profile that ladies should message him if they have an LA face and an Oakland booty.  I totally do, so I considered responding to his email.  In the end, I didn't.  Nor did I respond to these emails:

"Hey my names Mike and I thought you were really sexy, well get back at me if you like what you see, i'm 6'6 btw too ;)"  (This guy was 22, clearly all about appearances and possibly making a penis reference.)

"Hey still keep up with a 21 year old?? lol"  (What is it with these kids?  Is that a dare?)

"How what you?  My name is Juan."  (I'm still not sure how to answer that question.)

Sunday, November 27, 2011

When it rains it pourters

I hadn't been on a date in almost a year and suddenly I had three lined up.  With three different guys.  Who all happened to be named Porter.  I had to give them identifiers in my phone so I could tell them apart.  It was partly fun and partly a pain in the ass.  Sometimes I couldn't remember which one I had talked to about certain things.  I felt a little bit like Phoebe when she was dating two guys and said it wasn't like playing the field it was like working in the field.

     Porter number one was called "Porter (tasting room)" because I met him in the tasting room at work.  (Not sure if I'm allowed to go out with a guy I meet while working, but oh well.  Too late to find out now.)  He had hypnotic eyes and a gorgeous smile and was very nice to me, but he was barely taller than me and a lot skinnier than me.  I gave him a chance anyway, considering he was the most normal guy I had encountered in a long time.
      He made me wait till the third date to have sex.  I like to call that strike one.  I used to think that it was a good idea to make the guy wait if you actually like him and want to see him again.  Now, having been on the other side of it, I see that it's a very stupid idea.  All it did was make me want those first two dates to happen real quick so I could get to the sex date.  It didn't make me like or respect him more, it just made me want the sex more.  So, either I've seen things from a guy's perspective or I'm an impatient slut.  Maybe a little bit of both, but that's neither here nor there.
     We finally did the deed and during one session, when I was on top of him, he looked at me and said, "Your face looks...weird."  Uhhhhhh.  I was actually speechless for a second.  When I found words, I said, "I can't believe you just said that!  Why would you say that to me?"  He tried to backtrack, "No, that's not what I meant!  You just, you look like you're in pain."  Not helping!  Basically he told me my sex face sucks.  Wonderful.  Needless to say, I called that strike two.
     I decided to forgive him.  We all say stupid shit sometimes, right?  Well, we did the deed another time and I started feeling sick after.  (I had some pretty bad gas from dinner.  I'm very sexy, don't be jealous.)  I told him I wasn't feeling well and I was going to go home.  He said he didn't want me to leave, what if I had to throw up on the way home or something.  I said I didn't want him to hear me being sick, so he turned on the light and the ceiling fan in the bathroom and said, "Just don't be loud."  Thanks, dick.  I said, "Um, that's not the kind of sick I'm going to be."  And he said something along the lines of light a match.  I don't really remember because the anger in my head was louder than his suddenly irritating voice.  I call that one big fat strike three.

     Porter number two was called "Porter (Table for Six)" because I met him at a Table for Six* dinner.  He had a good sense of humor and generally didn't seem like a weirdo.  We went to dinner and were able to carry on a conversation easily, which was nice, but it was perfectly ordinary.  And I want extraordinary.  Plus, I learned that he doesn't mind people being gay but he doesn't "condone it".  I said, "It's not something you condone, it's just something that is."  He didn't seem to grasp that concept and that was basically strike one and two for me.**  After the date he texted me: I have to say, your really hot.  I hope to see you again when you get back in town.  SMILE.  This text was strike three for the following reasons: 
     1) He didn't tell me he had a good time or he enjoyed my company, he told me I was hot.  Good to know you're all about looks, beefcake.
     2) He used the wrong "your".  Don't even get me started on that.
     3) I don't know if he was commanding me to smile with the use of all caps or if he does that instead of using an emoticon, but it bugged me.  Which means I didn't like him.  I would've justified the shit out of all those things if I liked him in the slightest.

     Porter number three was called "Porter (airplane)" because I met him through a girl I met on an airplane.  (It pays to talk to your neighbor.)  We texted back and forth for a couple weeks before we finally got together for dinner.  And then drinks.  And then sex.  Isn't that how it's supposed to go? 
     This guy was a former football player, he was tall and big.  With a below average weiner.  And below average use of said weiner.  Don't get me wrong, I have had my share of below average weiners and it hasn't always equaled bad sex.  Unfortunately, this time, it did.  It was too bad, he was really funny and I probably would've texted him and said something like, "So, we put out on the first date, we're equally slutty, shall we just move past it and go on a second date?"  But I couldn't get past the bad sex (strike one, two and three).  He didn't make a strong attempt to go out with me again, either, so it was probably bad for him, too.  No, that couldn't have been it.  I'm fabulous.

A few weeks after it was over with all of them, I got a text from Porter number one and Porter number three in the same day.  I was like, my goodness, when it rains it pours!  Or, in this case, pourters.  Damn, I'm funny.  At least I crack myself up.

*I like to call them Table for Sucks.  This is not based on the date I discussed above, but on the way they run their company and the way they falsely sell their service.  I would NOT recommend that anyone join.

**I don't require that everyone agree with me on gay rights (which should really just be called rights), but I get to choose who I date.  And I choose to date someone who believes in human, civil, and equal rights.

Monday, November 14, 2011

The Aussie

On my last day in Queenstown, New Zealand I did a wine tour excursion.  There were two Canadian girls on the tour who invited me to go out with them that night.  The one downfall to being with a group of 65-73 year olds was that they weren't so much down for the nighttime bar scene, so I was very excited to make new friends who knew where the bars were.

I don't know the name of the bar they took me to, but they knew all the guys there.  (Apparently, these girls had been in town a few days.)  They introduced me to this super hot Australian guy with a smile that could make your knees buckle.  And then he started talking and it got even better.  That accent is so sexy it makes me want (to quote Chelsea Handler) to take off my clothes and high five myself.  Seriously, a man with an accent could say any number of horrible things to me and I'd still have an orgasm right where I was standing.  But this tall pile of Vegemite only said wonderful things to me.

He said, "I think I saw you at the airport.  It had to be you.  I remember your reddish brown hair and your gorgeous smile and then I heard your sexy American accent and I had to meet you, but you were with a group of older people and you all looked like you were in the middle of something.  I was so upset I had missed my chance and now here you are!"

At least, he said something like that.  It was hard to concentrate on the actual words he was saying with that accent distracting me.  He definitely said the part about my sexy American accent, because I distinctly remember thinking I don't have an accent and if I do it's not sexy, but what a great way to try to get me in bed!  That kind of pick up can only work in a foreign country, way to not let the opportunity pass you by.

We talked and flirted over cocktails for a while and then...he kissed me.  Sadly, I don't remember how the moment started, I just remember we were kissing right in the middle of the bar.  I suggested we sit and kiss, like all the other people inappropriately making out in the bar.  He was a really good kisser and told me I was too, which, along with calling me beautiful, is like pushing my leg open button.

I said, "Would you think me a slutty American if I asked you to come back to my hotel?"  He said, "I really like you," and some other stuff that I didn't quite hear - accent, remember?  So we left the bar and got a taxi back to my hotel.  Once we were making out in my room we realized neither of us had condoms.  (It's possible I had already used mine up with the French guy, but that's neither here nor there.)  We went downstairs and asked the front desk if they had condoms.  (Of course they didn't, but I thought it would be funny to ask.)  They were kind enough to tell us where we could buy some.  It wasn't supposed to be far, so we walked.  And got lost.  And when we finally found the condom selling store, the Aussie realized his hostel was just across the street.  He had condoms in his room so he grabbed a few and we taxied back to my hotel (it was cleaner and I wasn't sharing a room). Then we...ya know...did it.

And let me just say this: what they say about Australian men is true.  And it's awesome.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 3)

*It will make more sense if you read day 1 and day 2 first*

We woke up very tired on Saturday morning, too late for free breakfast, so we ate some nasty processed crap and got ready to go to the pool.  I wore my tank top that said, “does this shirt make me look divorced?” and of course my button that said “kiss me, I’m divorced”.  As the six of us were walking to the three lounge chairs we were going to have to share, some guys who wanted to read my shirt stopped me. 
One guy said, “Let me see your finger.”  I assumed he meant the finger my wedding ring would go on, so I showed him.  Then he said, “Is the whole thing divorced?” 
I wasn’t sure what to assume that meant so I did a wave with my hand up and down my body and said, “Yep, it’s all divorced” and continued walking.  I was really tired and he seemed really stupid; it wasn’t worth trying to get a free drink or a kiss.
It didn’t take much time in the sun for me to start feeling yucky in the tummy.  I told the girls I didn’t feel good and needed to take a nap.  About an hour later they came back to the room and told me they made friends with some gay guys who wanted to hang out with us later.  I love gay guys!  They always say stuff like, “Girl, you look fierce!” and I know it’s true because they’re obviously not trying to sleep with me.  I told them that on the way back to the room I got us on the list at Tao, the club in the Venetian.  Suzanne texted the guys and told them to come with us to Tao and I made a call and changed our group number on the list.
At cocktail hour we managed to take down two raspberry lemon drops each while making plans to meet with our new friends.  We decided to meet them for dinner at Grand Lux because we wanted more of those insanely delicious strawberry martinis.  We took down two more of those each, but it was day 3 in a row of drinking and by this time my body was like, “I am not waking up hung over again, get drunk on your own time,” so I wasn’t even feeling a warm buzz after four cocktails.
Even if I had been lucky enough to get my buzz on, waiting in line (even in the shorter “on the list” line) was a major buzz kill.  When we finally got in we bought $14 drinks and nursed them like they were the last drinks on earth.  I think we were all feeling the weight of the last few days because none of us were really dancing and we were more irritated by how loud the music was and the people bumping into us than anything else.  At least, I hope it was just that we were feeling the weight of the last few days and not that we were rapidly aging into the kind of people who say, “Does the music have to be so damn loud?”  We decided to leave.
          We went back to our room, changed, had a few cocktails and went to Margaritaville.  I had barely enough energy and no liquid confidence to get the kisses I wanted.  I was scraping the bottom of the barrel.  I was torn between not giving a crap and knowing that the competitive woman in me would give a crap later.  I started telling guys that it was our last night in town for my divorce party and my friends had dared me to get ten kisses.  I got nine.  No tongue.  I brought the chocolates with me and gave one to each guy that kissed me. 
        Then I danced.  Suddenly I got my energy back.  Kimmy, Suzanne and Anne all left around midnight but I stayed with Gay 1 and Gay 2 (our new friends).  At some point we lost Gay 1, but Gay 2 and I closed the place down.  We danced our asses off.  It was just what I needed, and the perfect way to end the trip.  Well, the perfect way to end the trip would’ve been sex with a delicious man, but dancing is the next best thing (just like at the end of My Best Friend’s Wedding).

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 2)

*It'll make more sense if you read day 1 first*

The rest of the girls started arriving after cocktail hour Friday night, and in no time there were six of us curling hair, picking out dresses and shoes and mixing drinks and it was perfect.  I gave each of them a button that said “Jen’s kick-ass divorce party”, put on my sash and buttons, grabbed the bag of divorce chocolates and we were off.
The plan was to go to karaoke and then dancing.  I had seen this place with karaoke signs but had never been in.  It was up an escalator next to an outdoor bar that sold colorful blended drinks in yards.  We got a few of those and headed upstairs.  The place was packed.  Anne and I each put in a song and the KJ said there was about an hour wait.
There was a bride and groom at the table next to us.  The bride saw my button and said, “My brother is single!  I’ll send him over!”  Her brother came over to our table and starting chatting with us, not quite sure why he was sent over.  Then he saw my button and gave me a big hug.
“I’m so sorry!  That’s so sad, I’m so sorry!”  He said.
“The button doesn’t say hug!”  I said.
Then my girls started yelling at him to kiss me.  And he did.  He put his arms around me and kissed me hard on the mouth and then he dipped me over the chair and gave me some tongue.  It was awesome.  I could hear woo hoos and cameras clicking…and not just from my friends.  All the tables around us were watching.  Gosh, I just hate being the center of attention!
Finally it was our turn.  Anne sang, then I sang (and we were the best ones, of course).  It was pretty late by then so we left.  We went back to the outdoor bar that sells frosty yards and got a few more of those…and a few more kisses.  One of my friends has a friend who spins in Vegas and could supposedly get us into some club for free.  It was at Mandalay Bay, which was at the complete other end of the strip.  A taxi would’ve been a wise choice, but in our drunkenness we decided it was a good idea to walk.  On the way I got a kiss from a guy with a multicolored Mohawk and skinny leather pants with chains.  Each guy that gave me a kiss was given a divorce chocolate.  And if we walked by people who thought my sash was cool they got a divorce chocolate too.  And if we walked by a guy who didn’t kiss me, I would scream at him to “OBEY THE BUTTON!” 
At one point Kimmy said, “Maybe you shouldn’t scream at people.” 
I screamed at her, “MAYBE YOU SHOULD DRINK MORE!” and shoved the yard in her face.
We came across a small group of young guys who were there for a bachelor party.  The bachelor was 21.  He obeyed the button and his friends took pictures.  I told him I felt sorry for whomever he was marrying and walked on.  (Perhaps I was too harsh on the guy.  I mean, all he did was kiss a divorcee; it’s not like he had a stripper on his lap or anything.  But at the time, I was seeing the world through divorce colored glasses.) 
We had been walking forever and had gotten nowhere.  We finally just got a taxi back to the Venetian and went to the Grand Lux where we ordered a bunch of appetizers and the most delicious strawberry martinis in the world.  There was a super gorgeous guy at the table next to us and I wanted to talk to him.
 I said to my sister, “Kimmy, give me a reason to talk to that guy.” 
She said, “I’ll give you one hundred cool points if you talk to him.”  (If you’ve ever heard of strip Happy Days game, you’ll know what I’m talking about.)
Done.  He was from Chicago.  He was in Vegas with his friend and his friend’s wife and their single girl friend.  Supposedly he was not shacking up with the single girl friend so I was hoping to get my kiss on.
As I worked on him, my friends slowly started drifting back to the hotel room and by 5am Kimmy and Ailene were the only ones left.  They were ready for bed too and I thought this was the perfect opportunity for Chicago and me to have one of those adventures people have in the movies.  You know, where two people meet and stay up all night and either fall in love or have sex or both?  I was all ready for my movie romance to start but he wanted to go to bed.  Alone.  He hugged me good-bye a bunch of times. What’s with the hugging?  Hugs are for condolences, and hellos and goodbyes from family and friends not from gorgeous strangers in the romantic movie in my head.
I got a total of seven kisses that night, none of which were from Chicago.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Chapter 18, or My kick-ass divorce party (day 1)

           Remember when I found out I was divorced [February 2009] and started making plans for a weekend in Vegas?  Well, I’ve always liked the Venetian because it’s among what I consider the best part of the strip...and they give you slippers.  I looked through their accommodations and came across the Concierge Suite.  It was perfect. You get complimentary breakfast, afternoon hors d’oeuvres, and evening cocktail hour.  Ok, let’s face it; what really caught my eye was the evening cocktail hour.  Free drinks for three hours?  I’m going to say no to that?  Drinks are stupid expensive in Vegas, I figured in three hours we could definitely drink more than $100 worth of cocktails and end up saving money.  It’s really all about the math.  So I booked it.
Apparently I’m not the first person to have a divorce party because you can get all kinds of cool party stuff on the Internet.  Right there with the bachelorette stuff.  I got a black sash with red blinking lights that said Just Divorced, a big bag of chocolates with wrappers that said things like “forget the ring, I want alimony”, “free at last”, “divorced is the new engaged”, “next time I’ll marry for money”, etc., and divorce party themed candy bar wrappers to make favors.  My sister Kimmy and I made a button for me that said “Kiss me I’m divorced!” and buttons for the rest of the group that said “Jen’s kick-ass divorce party”.
My friend Anne found a bunch of stuff online, too, and everyone pitched in to get me buttons that said “just divorced, buy me a drink” and “back on the market, reasonable offers considered”, shirts that said “we all know I was too good for him” and, my favorite, “does this shirt make me look divorced?” a mug and coaster that said “love is grand, divorce is a hundred grand”, and a magnet that said “I’m even more kick ass now that I’m divorced”.  I was so Divorce Couture.

I ended up having five girls come to My Kick-Ass Divorce Party: Ailene, Suzanne, Anne, my roommate, and Kimmy.  Kimmy flew down on Wednesday night, stayed at my house and we drove to Vegas on Thursday.  Everyone else had to work so they would be joining us Friday night.  We stopped at the grocery store on our way to stock up on booze and snacks for the weekend.  Disgusting snacks you would otherwise never buy are also important.  Armed with the essentials, plus a playlist entitled “my kick ass divorce mix”, we headed off to sin city.
When we checked in, we were told it was cocktail hour and would we like a martini while we check in?  Um, I would love a martini while I check in, thank you.  By the time we were done checking in we were ready for another martini.  I wanted to make sure our luggage got to our room so we could beautify for cocktail hour. 
I said, “Kimmy, let’s hurry and get ready so we can come back up for more cocktails.”  The lovely Concierge said, “Would you like to take a cocktail with you?”  Um, I would love to take a cocktail with me, thank you.  We were given two more martinis and headed off to our room.  It was the best hotel treatment I’d ever had.  I don’t know how I’ll ever slum it at a regular hotel again.
Our luggage arrived shortly after we did so we beautified quickly.  (We only had about an hour before cocktail hour ended.)  Dressed in our little dresses and big booby bras, we slapped on our buttons and headed back to the lounge where martinis were waiting.  We had enjoyed three more martinis and some teeny tiny appetizers when we realized we should eat some real food.  We decided to go to Margaritaville; it was a quick walk.  On our way out of the hotel we ran into two older men who noticed my buttons.  I was wearing the one that said “Kiss me I’m divorced” and the one that said, “Just divorced, buy me a drink”.  They both laughed and slurred drunkenly and one of them planted one right on my mouth.  My first button-influenced kiss!
When we got to Margaritaville we headed straight to the bar where there was a swarm of men.  We ordered margaritas and waited for my buttons to be noticed.  It didn’t take long.  The first guy that approached me was dressed all in white with a white sailor hat on.  We called him Popeye.  Well, not to his face.  He asked me what my buttons said so I pushed out my chest and let him read them.  He opted for the kiss.  So did the rest of the group he was with.  We nicknamed them Cougar Chaser, Sister Lover, Jail Bait, Chocolate Hotness, and Two Brown Guys.  I don’t know if their opting for the kiss over the drink meant they were super cheap or I was super hot.  It could have been both.
Jail Bait was so named because he was 23.  Which doesn’t make him legally jailbait, but I was 31 at the time.  That’s quite a bit older than 23.  But besides Popeye, he was the most interested in me, and the one I let kiss me with tongue.  Popeye tried to stick his tongue in my mouth, but I kept my lips clamped shut.  I think the most likely reasons I gave in to Jail Bait were because he was super tall and kept telling me I was beautiful (you know I’m a sucker for that).
I got a total of eight kisses that night and Jail Bait’s phone number.  We closed down Margaritaville and on our way back to the hotel, Kimmy and I realized we hadn’t paid for any of our drinks and we had forgotten to eat.  Oh well, good thing we had nasty processed crap waiting for us in the hotel room.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

This year in Nonline Dating: Second Quarter

Shopping at the online man store is like going to a garage sale at the end of the day and all that's left are mismatched shoes and partial sets of chipped tableware. 

This is how April, May and June turned out:

Dear (user name): Writing a poem in your 'about me' section might make some women think you are creative and sensitive, but it makes me think you should be in the men seeking men category of the website. Just sayin'.

Dear (user name): it's okay to use commas. And spellcheck. And to proofread.

Dear (user name): That's so funny, I AM looking for a man who will tell me what time it is and put me in my place when I need it. Will you also smack me around when I run my mouth? P.S. I think you meant to say, "chivalry is not dead" not "shivery is not dead". Uh oh, does correcting your spelling count as a time when I need to be put in my place? What time is it? 

Dear (user name): Yes, I am every is all in me. Thanks for asking. And for finding a way to draw me in with Whitney Houston. And for having seven pictures of just your body parts and zero pictures where your face can actually be seen. And for having a picture of your hand slightly in your pants. That one was my favorite.

Dear (user name): It's not that you spelled "manerizims" and "sandwitch" wrong, or that you look like a serial killer. It's that you used the wrong "your" throughout your profile. And the serial killer thing.

My two favorite emails of the quarter:

"Your Sexy !
I Would love to give you a D!ck in a box :)
Are you a playful Girl?"

(Grr, if only he hadn't used the wrong "your"!)

"Ive just made love to your profile and am still considering calling the next day. I am truly enamored."

(It was actually kinda funny, and it was nice to know that something of mine is being made love to, but it still had that slight element of creepiness.)

Friday, November 4, 2011

The French Guy

In January of 2010 I spent the first chunk of the vacation fund I had put aside from my divorce settlement on a 19 day trip to Australia and New Zealand.  I went with a tour group that consisted of me and eight others.  They were all between 65 and 73 years old.  And I had a blast with them!

In Australia we went to Sidney, Cairns and Melbourne, then in New Zealand we went to Christchurch, Queenstown and Auckland.  Naturally, there were several flights and bus trips between each.  I made a rule with my group that if anyone got sat next to a hot guy, they had to switch seats with me.  I was going through a five month drought so they were all happily willing to help me out.  (One of the many reason I loved my group.)

So it was, on our flight from Melbourne to Christchurch, that Meredith called to me from her seat in the plane, "Hey Jen, do you mind switching with Vic?  He really likes the window seat."  I looked at the seat next to Vic and sure enough, there was a hot guy sitting there.  So I said, very casually, "Oh, sure, I don't mind at all," and took my place between Meredith and the mysterious hot guy she'd gift wrapped for me.

For the majority of the flight he didn't even seem to notice me.  I tried pretending to look out the window so that he might think I was looking at him, I tried crowding the arm rest so that our arms touched, I even spied at his laptop when it was open to see if there was anything I could ask him about, but the angle was bad and I couldn't see anything.

It wasn't until we started to descend that he finally spoke to me.  He asked if I wanted to look out the window because we were getting closer and could see the beautiful New Zealand mountains and shit.  When he spoke I heard he had an accent so I asked him where he was from.  He was from France!  I gave Meredith a mental high five.

We talked for the remainder of the flight and through customs and then we got separated after baggage claim.  My group gave me a hard time for letting him get away so I wrote the name and address of our hotel on a slip of paper so that if I happened to run into him again, I could not-so-subtly let him know where I was staying.

When we were getting on the shuttle to our hotel, one of the women in my group spotted the French guy at the bus stop.  She said, "Jen, there he is!  Here's your chance!"  I called out his name, walked toward him, gave him the slip of paper and said, "In case you're looking for a place to stay, I think there are still vacancies at our hotel."  And in my room.

We we were given a tour of Christchurch and then had lunch.  As we were walking back to our hotel, someone in my group said, "Jen, is that your boyfriend?"  I looked toward the hotel and there he was, my French guy, walking very slowly and casually in front of my hotel.  I was totally gonna score!

And I did.  That night...and the next day and night, too.  My favorite part (besides the slow, romantic sex with a mysterious French guy) was when he came to pick me up at the hotel the first night.  (I had an excursion right after I ran into him in front of the hotel so we decided to meet up that night.)  Somehow, my whole group ended up in the lobby of the hotel where I was waiting.  Some were playing cards, some were checking email and some had just returned from dinner.  One of the men in my group said, "Bring this guy in here, I want to meet him!"  It was like waiting for my prom date or something.  I saw him walk up so I met him outside, but the front of the hotel was all windowed walls so as we walked away, my whole group smiled and waved at us.  It would've been embarrassing if it wasn't totally adorable.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

F*ck off/Oral hygiene

My week in Ireland was followed by a week in Scotland.  I had a great time, even though I was told to fuck off three times.

The first time, we were at this tiny restaurant/pub.  I was in the seat with easiest access to the bar so it was my job to get our drinks all night.  Every time I went to the bar this old man would just stand there staring at me with his mouth open.  Finally, on what ended up being my last trip to the bar, he managed to bark slash spit a few words at me in a drunken Scottish accent, "Yer beautiful!"  I said thank you and went about ordering my drinks.  He continued to stare at me, open mouthed.  Then he slowly started leaning toward me.  I looked at him and saw that he still had his mouth open, so I bowed my head quickly and his kiss hit me in the forehead.  I grabbed my drinks and as I started to walk away he shouted slash slurred, "Fuck off!"

The third time (I'm saving the second time for last because it's the best of the three), we were in an after hours club with some friends we had made.  I was at the very crowded bar waiting to order some drinks when the guy next to me started chatting me up.  He put his hand on my ass and offered to buy me a drink.  I let him keep his hand on my ass and I let him buy me a drink.  When our drinks arrived he said, "Don't you think I should get a kiss now?"  I replied, "I think the fact that you've had your  hand on my ass the entire time we've been standing here is payment enough.  Thanks for the drink."  He told me to fuck off, so I did.  Fuck off means walk away, right?

The second time, we were in a cute little pub with phrases painted all over the ceiling.  (My favorite one said Eatin' Ain't Cheatin'.  I mean, I suppose that could be true in certain circles.)  One of my turns at the bar this guy walked up and said, "You want a drink?"  I told him that, yes, I was getting a drink.  He said, "No, I'll buy you a drink."  I thanked him and the bartender started making my drink.  I was drinking double absolute blackberry with sprite and as she started pouring in the second shot the guy goes, "Whoa, whoa!"  The bartender said, "You offered to buy her a drink, this is what she's drinking."  I thought it was an awesome response, but apparently the guy didn't because when I thanked him for the drink he told me to fuck off.

I went back to my table and as I was telling my gay the story, the guy walked up to me and asked me where I was from.  I said I was from California.  He said sarcastically, "You mean Mexico?"  I can see where there might be some confusion there, but still.  I said, "No, California.  California is in the United States and Mexico is in...Mexico."  This time he got a little patronizing and said, "The United States of America..." and as he spit the word America at me, something fell out of his mouth and into my lap.  I shrieked and brushed whatever it was onto the floor.  He picked it up and took off.  I turned to my gay with a look of horrified confusion and said, "What was that?!"  This is the best part.  He looked at me and through unstoppable laughter said, "It was his teeth!"  This guy's two front teeth feel out of his mouth and into my lap!

He actually had the balls to approach me again.  He sat down and asked me, "Why do Americans have such good teeth?"  I told him because we go to the dentist every six months.  He said, "Doesn't that get kind of annoying?"  I said, "No, because then we have good oral hygiene."  And our teeth don't fall out into people's laps.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

The Irish Guy

**Warning:  this post is rated NC-17, which means patently adult, children not admitted**

I went to Ireland in March of 2010 with my favorite gay.  We arrived in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day.  I had been told before that they don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland.  Well, that information was incorrect.  They have a parade, people dress up, paint their faces, everyone is drinking - it was like Gay Pride and the Fourth of July had a butt child.

Our flight got in quite early and we knew we weren't going to last all day drinking so we took a nap midway through our day.  We chose our favorite pub from the afternoon to go back to that evening.  There was a live band and dancing, it was perfect.  (I don't remember the name of the pub and I blame that on the whiskey.)

My gay and I took turns buying drinks and it happened to be my turn when this attractive, black leather jacket wearing guy (he was very Kenickie from Grease) approached the bar.  We hung out and talked there for a bit and then I remembered I had to bring my gay his drink.  I brought the Irish guy, too.

The three of us talked for a while and the Irish guy kept buying us both drinks.  Such a kind lad.  My gay kept taking smoke breaks outside and during those moments I was left alone to make out with the Irish guy in the pub.  At first I resisted because I don't like to make out in pubs.  Then I looked to my left and a couple was making out.  I looked to my right and a couple was making out.  I looked across from us and a couple was making out.  I figured it was just something they do in Ireland and I should respect their customs while I was in their country.  I mean, I didn't want to be a rude American, did I?

Then the time came when Irish guy asked me to go home with him.  I said something like, "What, you think I'm some slutty American girl who goes home with a guy the first night she meets him?"  The answer to that question is, of course, yes.  Yes, I am and yes, I do.  But I didn't want him to know least not right away.  When my gay came back I asked him what I should do, "It would be stupid to go home with him, right?  Stupid and dangerous?"  My gay said, "It's up to you, honey."  I translated that to mean, "Absolutely not stupid!  And what's dangerous about it?"

So I had my gay take a picture of me with the Irish guy (in case I turned up missing, we'd have photo evidence of the last person I was seen with) and I went home with the him.  His flat looked very much like what I imagine a serial killer's flat would look like.  White walls, no pictures or art, a couch, a bed, a dresser.  Obviously, he was not a serial killer because I am still alive to tell this story.  Yay for being alive!

He took me in the bedroom and that was where I learned that huge penis does not necessarily equal good in bed.  This guy actually bruised my lady bits.  (Details of the bruising would be more appropriate in a different forum.  I don't want my rating to go from NC-17 to X)  And there was a lot of upper body movement, but nothing going on in the lower body area.  Which is kinda the most important area for movement. 

During sex he would say stuff to me like, "You're a dirty little whore!"  and, "You're a dirty little slut!"  and, "You're a dirty little bitch!"  All in an Irish accent, so it was delayed reaction insulting.  First I'd think, yeah, talk to me in your sexy accent!  And then I'd think, wait, did he just call me a whore?  It was the weirdest, meanest sex I'd ever had.

The next morning I asked him to call me a cab, but he offered to drive me to my hotel.  Very chivalrous for such a nasty little leprechaun.