tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68537056409384794512024-02-07T21:40:53.735-08:00The Games of DatingStories of the games of dating. Share your thoughts and stories here, or just read, laugh, love and cry. Well, not really cry...That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-18674838542466403752010-02-11T14:18:00.000-08:002010-02-11T14:22:03.315-08:00Sorry we haven't posted in a while......But we are starting a new blog and you may see a few re-posts here and there for our new followers, but we hope this is just as interesting and entertaining as "The Games of Dating."<br /><br />Thanks for your support!<br /><br />:)<br /><br />Find us at:<br /><br />http://tomorrowat4.blogspot.com/That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-68508972576765040932009-06-02T17:16:00.000-07:002009-06-11T11:49:33.846-07:00DIRTY BIRD<a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=new-dumpster-law.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/new-dumpster-law.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />You know you may possibly have an addiction to getting dick stuffed in you when you’re bein’ banged right next to a fucking trash dumpster with an unstuffed, stained, old broken green couch strewn out in pieces in front of it. I consider it more like breathing…. living… shamelessly enjoying the one true carnal pleasure this shit called Earth has to offer.<br /><br />If skuzzy, trashy (see what I did there) bangin’ is a crime, then lock me up cause I’m fucking guilty as all hell and a chronic repeat offender. I’d say <em>this</em> dumpster hump is the low point, but I’m pretty sure there were times I was lower and just too damn drunk to remember. God bless alcohol, it usually always gets you into these situations and then out of the kindness of its heart ensures that you remember none of it. I’m also not at all certain that I won’t go lower. Dumpster just doesn’t feel like my rock bottom. Seeing as this latest incident, I have no explanation, no excuse; I was sober as a damn judge… just fucking hornier than a 13 year-old who just found his dad’s porn collection. There is no stopping the fury of the clit when she is pulsating. A sacrifice must be made to her no matter the circumstances. Dick must be inserted and milked. This is why I found myself humping homeless-style in the back lot of a tire store.<br /><br />Last week, I left work early for a dentist appointment. I get giddier than Bill Murray in “Little Shop of Horrors” when I go to the dentist, not because I like the smell of tooth decay or the feeling of being drilled (in this capacity that is) but because my dentist is a sexy fucking hunk of man meat. He looks just like a dude I’ve seen belly button dry-humping on Skinamax. I’ve resolved that this is how he paid his way through dental school. I just wish they’d actually throw you a cock shot once in a while, so I’d know what I’m dealing with here. It’d probably never be as glorious as I’ve already dreamed it is. When I’m waiting in the chair, I constantly fantasize about our own Skinamax episode. I lean back, close my eyes and he sticks his hard, pink man drill in my mouth. Then it’s nothing but *Bow Chicka Bow Wow,* baby. Now that’s the kind of check up I’m talkin’ about. I wouldn’t miss a one… probably double my appointments. People would be required to wear protective shades when I smiled. On top of my dentist being hotter than the surface of the sun, he’s married (yawn)<em> but</em> his office is down the street from my equally-sexy-in-a-different-way Mechanic (#24), who is single, who I’ve recycled for years, and who is one of my preferred whores/victims.<br /><br />I passed Mechanic’s shop on the way to my appointment and saw him outside, tinkering underneath the hood of an old school Caddy while he dragged on a clove. I instantly hatched a plan to destroy him. After the dentist sent me off with a massive case of blue labs (as in Labium Majoris) I couldn’t wait to suck that ashtray-flavored tongue right out of his mouth. Why not instantly fuck up those freshly cleaned pearly whites with some cigarette-infused tonguing followed by a salty rinse? I don’t smoke, it’s pretty rat ass, but it doesn’t mean I won’t fuck someone who does. Besides I’m in black out mode. Like Lenny-pet-the-rabbits, I want to pet the purdy penis. I’ve got my mind on the dick and the dick on my mind. When I reach this point, I’ll take it any fucking way I can get it and get it good.<br /><br />Hence, dirty bird.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=dirtybird-1.gif" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/dirtybird-1.gif" border="0" /></a></div><br />After my appointment, and the cunt teasing eye-candy, I had the Jetta on two wheels. I pull in <em>hot</em> to Mechanic’s shop. I scared one of the customers. He comes up to my driver side windshield and I stick my finger, which was just in my gushing pussy, into his mouth. My pants are undone and I’m breathing like the fucking Gatekeeper in “Ghostbusters.” I’m a wild fucking fuck monster and about to hurt somebody… badly. He barks something at his brother in Russian and jumps in the car. I peel out like I’m behind the wheel of K.I.T.T. We start mauling each other as I’m driving. I only manage to drive about five businesses down the road. Just because Mechanic’s a mechanic doesn’t mean my insurance gives a shit. I turn the wheel hard, grab some curb and the car goes flying into the back lot of a tire shop which, thankfully, is closed and off the main street.<br /><br />The car comes to a screeching halt in the far end of the lot, next to the dumpster, rank broken couch and a pile of old used tires. We were too preoccupied to bother with the romantic scenery. We are violently making out. I tear his shirt off and rip his wifebeater down the middle Hulk Hogan style – I’ve reinvented his signature move to work with my lifestyle. Hulkamaniacs rule! I have his belt off and pants down in roughly 2.4 seconds. I start sucking like I’m working a blowjob booth at the county fair. Except instead of a teddy bear I win a throbbing cock ready for insertion and penetration. I’m here to tell you, I won, may have been no competition but I won. I’m workin’ the dick like a magician; I’m the love child of Hoover and Houdini. Suck, disappear, suck, suck, disappear… then rinse and repeat. Gag tears are streaming, the window is fogging. He’s about to blow my head off with his man chowder and since that shit has to service the Queen herself it can not deflate.<br /><br />It’s my turn. Since I don’t have a dick, getting oral pleasure in a compact car is some tricky ass shit. The only saving grace would be the leather seats, which makes clean-up easy and efficient. It’s literally my favorite feature… okay, maybe besides the seat warmers. When it comes to getting a cock full, I become a fucking Cirque du Soleil acrobat. I can do poses that would shock and amaze my yoga teacher seeing as I can’t even get a quarter of the way there in class. Motivation is half the battle and when it comes to some rock hard dick, I can fucking move mountains and lick up oil spills. So there I am, feet behind my ears, getting eaten like Thanksgiving dinner. He’s practically in the back seat, leaning over me in one of the most awkward ways. It’s like a fucked up one way 69. Thank God the windows were completely fogged up since its 5:30pm and still very much daylight. There are houses, blocked by trees, right behind the shop. Someone may possibly be getting a very severe anatomy lesson, but fuck it, I’m getting my o-face on and they need to learn sometime. After the first pussy tremor and partial leakage I’m ready to get filled up and stretched out. One problem, the fucking car was obviously not designed to get yo freak on!!! Damn V-dub. My ass has been out of high school too long and I have no idea how I used to successfully fuck in such cramped quarters.<br /><br />He tries to maneuver himself in front of me in the passenger seat and we are so close together all he can do is stick his dick in but there isn’t any room for traction, the old in-out, some sweet pump ‘n hump action. The anticipation of getting fucked when a huge, hard dick is inches from your dripping pussy is comparable to being stranded in the desert without water for seven days and stumbling upon a crisp, cool looking water fountain. You HAVE TO HAVE THAT SHIT… NOW! Since the car is not working for a vagine beating session I have to improvise… which basically means getting out of the car to get fucked against the wall.<br /><br />We do this, using the dumpster to block the view into the houses. And the stacked used tires to block the view from anyone who may also be screeching into the parking lot to fuck. Other than that, no one is around. We go at it makeup sex-style although neither of us was ever mad at each other. Love that shit. I instantly get a pretty mean case of concrete burn on my back which made for a sexy combo of pain and pleasure. When my fucking vagina is being hammered all the other senses shut down, so I couldn’t smell what had to be the stench of rotting trash around us. I could no longer even see the couch or the dumpster itself. To me, I might as well have been getting railed on silk sheets while an 18-piece orchestra serenaded us. I start convulsing into my orgasm seizures and he let’s out the typical I-just-blew-my-man-wad groan. We stand there panting for a bit, laughing about how ridiculously nasty and high school we are acting when we hear some squeaky car brakes come to a halt.<br /><br />WTFF?<br /><br />Through the stacks of tires we see that the 5-0, bacon bits, po po, one-time, piggies have pulled up across the lot from my car. Yay. Had they rolled up like literally two feet closer they would have seen our heads peeking over the top of the dumpster. We duck down and use the tires as our fortress. I’m really hoping I can now add public indecency to my rap sheet. It’s like collecting different color achievement stars in the third grade all over again but now its illegal charges I’m rackin’ up. Mrs. Pardon would be so proud. Our clothes are still in the car. I’m only wearing platforms and my bra as a necklace. He’s in boxers. Luckily we had shut both car doors and it’s parked normally. It’s just the only damn car in the lot and the shop is closed. The coppers are about 20ft. away from where we are holding each other naked behind the tires and dumpster. I can see its two male cops and they are eerily still in the car just starring straight ahead and not talking. Can they see us? Do they not want to see us naked as much as we don’t want them to see us naked? Ten minutes go by and our stand off is still under way. This is weird… and creepy… and taking FOREVER. Ten minutes in an awkward position like that might as well have been a fucking hour… or an entire day.<br /><br />The tires are completely blocking us, I’m sure of it. I can only see through the tiniest wee little cracks between them and we have literally not moved a fucking muscle. I have a killer charlie horse under my knee, which I often get after orgasm and it’s now being severely agitated by freezing in a squatting position for this amount of time. Not being able to walk around and stretch is a mothafuckin’ biatch. It's involuntarily, borderline obnoxiously shaking causing my platform to continuely tap. Mechanic has to hold my leg down to get it the fucknig thing off. They have us right where they want us, fuckers. Why are these aholes just sitting there? They don’t even get out to investigate? Some fucking mom in those houses must have called the fuzz on us... can't really say that I blame her, I may myself one day fall victim to becoming a no fun having, dried up vagina owning, husband-fucking-the-secretary-man-hating-but-I stay-for-my-kids-type-of-woman. I can't judge. Although, I think I'd be more the type to look fondly on two young whippersnappers having a little reckless fun, and if the kids aren't home the type that gets off while I watch.<br /><br />And still waiting, c'mon already bitches, make your move. Is this some type of cop psychological torture? They’ve got to be running my plates, which are clean… in this state at least. Mechanic’s phone starts to blow up in the car. It stops and then rings all over again… non-stop. He’s starting to worry because he knows it’s his shop probably wondering where the fuck the owner went. I'm a little more worried about the damn cops sitting 20ft. away that may finally get off their lazy ass to check out the constant ringing and we have to come out from behind the dumpster - me butt ass naked - most likely with hands up, get dressed in front of them and then be subjected to a cot and a hot for the night. I can see the condom wrapper, which had fallen out of the car on the ground next to the driver side door, slowly inching away due to the breeze. Why won’t these porkers do something? I’m literally freezing my tits off since we are no longer banging which was, at the time, keeping me warm. Now the sweat on the back of my neck may kill me by way of hypothermia. The trash also fucking reeks.<br /><br />Just as my leg is about to give out and the ten minutes of silent immobility is about to drive me insane in the fucking membrane the siren comes to life and annoyingly wails as they peel out of the parking lot at rocket speed. This is Torrance, there is never a reason for this Charles Bronson type of behavior. They'll probably be the fifth unit to come barreling up on the crime scene of three 5th graders skateboarding in a parking lot they're not supposed to be in. <br /><br />I refuse to move for a good two minutes, partially because my leg is now completely paralyzed - by the way nothing sexier than being naked in this type of crouched over position - and because it takes that long for the notion that nothing happened to actually sink in. Seriously? No idea how I dodged that one since I have negative amounts of luck with the law but I couldn’t be happier that I did. There’s no way they saw us because if they had I know we would have gotten rolled. I guess smart people would take this as a serious warning but I’m pretty sure my fuckcapades will continue operating as normal, making me my own worst enemy. Not bad as far as enemies go if you ask me… at least she’s hot and likes to have fun.<br /><br />I <em>am </em>really glad I got to dodge the sweet scenario that would most definitely have taken place at work. “Hey girl, why didn’t you show up for work yesterday?” “Oh you know, the usual, I got caught fucking my mechanic after my dentist appointment behind a trash dumpster and got hauled in.” Hey, fuck it, if these are the risks a bitch has got to take for some dick action then so be it. I didn’t make the rules I just play the game.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Fucking by a dumpster might not be your thing, I can dig it, but I’m gonna get mine while I can because some day when I can hackie sack my National Geographic titties on my knees and no one wants my shit I’ll regret not acting when I had the chance. When opportunity knocks, (as Mark Walberg so eloquently put it in “Fear”) open the fucking door!<br /><br />XOXO<br /><br />Easy LoverEasy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-13654591289237798782009-05-05T18:26:00.000-07:002009-05-15T17:57:49.120-07:00PRISON LOVE... A TIMELESS LOVE<div align="center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=prison_tats_01.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/prison_tats_01.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div align="justify"><strong>Disclaimer</strong>: Many of you peeps may already know and have heard every last detail of the below tale, but it’s truly one of my finer moments so, wtf, why not repeatedly relive the glory?<br /><br />A few years ago, I made the mistake of falling for one of my brother’s friends. I don’t, for the most part, go through life with my head up my ass, so I knew this was a risk seeing as, generally, the one way to ensure monumentally pissing off your much older brother is by dating and fucking one of his buddies… and doing the latter exceptionally well <em>and</em> anywhere at any time. The man had a dick the size of my forearm, hung like ox, so I had no choice, abso-fucking-lutely none. It’s all my bro and their friends could talk about: </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">“Dude, he whipped it out to piss and I thought that shit was gonna hit the ground.” </div><div align="justify">“Fucker has elephantitis of the dick, I swear… I want elephantitis of the dick, shit.” </div><div align="justify">“Fuck, yeah I check it out. Pretty sure it’s turning me gay.”<br /><br />Elephantitis? Really? That’s it, I was in love. Lost under the spell of the skin flute’s sweet song. Seeing as I<em> always</em> fall for the man in the pink helmet and he couldn’t resist a blonde with a nice snatch we were both powerless to the attraction. So for three months over the summer the heat in the bedroom made the sweltering summer months feel more like an early winter. We rocked that headboard so hard it put a hole in his wall. His neighbor asked him to move the bed and started using sleeping pills. I, at times, needed aspirin for my beat up pussy. He’d pull chunks of my hair out. We’d slap each other all over the room. Shit was ON. It was the porn version of WWE, except co-ed. I’d have trouble walking normal and taking stairs, but would promptly sit on it and ride it whenever<em> it</em> was around. Those were my glorious Rodeo Days.<br /><br />But, much like hot sex, it ended in a mess all over the place leaving a semi-bitter taste in my mouth. All I could do is swallow my pride, clean myself off and get the feck over it. Turns out I did indeed monumentally piss off my brother and since he’s a dick, he and his other friends plotted to set the Ox up with another chick. The Ox didn’t have the balls (seeing as they were tiny, like two limes trying to look desirable amidst a watermelon) to tell them to fuck off… or maybe he was over the Fuck-a-thon and wanted a woman with more “substance” who wouldn’t suck his dick nearly as often or as well, who knows. I wasn’t too surprised; I knew it would come to an end and figured my brother would happily squash it. I just didn’t think the Ox would be such a fucking d-bag about it. Instead of being sent to my relationship grave with dignity, he breakup email’s me at work. I’m sorry, am I Carrie Bradshaw? Is this Sex and the City? I guess this is where “he’s just not that into you” applies, although I think that shit should be rephrased to “he just doesn’t give a fuck about you, bitch.” A little face-to-face “you’re the biggest loser” talk would have been appreciated, but I guess if I had to choose between the Ox doing one thing well I’d leave it at fucking and not communicating. On top of the totally awesome email - the preferred breakup choice of leading vaginas everywhere - which consisted of two heartfelt poetic sentences, by the by, I show up at my family river trip in Arizona a month later to find the Ox there holding court, acting like nothing ever happened.<br /><br />This is the story of #33, the Pussy, who is to thank for my introduction to *#34, Convict # 27901356764.<br /><br />If I know I have to see someone on a somewhat regular basis or they know and/or are friends with my family, I usually like to keep the line of communication flowing, even in difficult times so everyone can get over their issues in a non-dramatic somewhat healthy adult way and move on. I’m not a fan or practitioner of the passive aggressive pussy ass shit. But I was now thrust into that environment, so fuck it, what could I do? Not give a shit, is what. My family just loves the Ox, thinks he’s so cute and is such a great catch, which added <em>juuuust</em> a pinch of lemon to my paper cut. That, and him being heavily involved with the girl my brother helped set him up with was like a cherry polyp on top of the shit sundae. But fuck it, I live a big girl life, knew what I was getting into and that I’d probably get screwed (which I did… many times… in every position). Only thing to do now was party and get shitty.<br /><br />And during the day, par-tay I did. I tore that river up, it was 1999 all fucking over again. I was there to kick ass or chew bubblegum and, you bet your sweet ass, I was all out of bubble gum. Oh yeah, I went there. I shook my money maker, drank some drank, smoked some smoke, mingled with some sausages. Truly didn’t care that the Ox was ten feet away the entire time. The river has that power. All was good in this bitch's hood until sundown hit the horizon, and the drunken brokedown palace ho’s staying at the house next door to my brother’s invited themselves over and started an impromptu stripper party, that I became less than pumped. Since I didn’t have anyone to gyrate on and the Ox insisted on locking eyes with me every time one of the coug’s started grinding on him I was ready to mosey on to the next leg of my river adventure sans the Ox and his stupid face and its stupid smile. Normally, the mere mention of “stripper party” would be go-time for me but since my family was around I decided to split to the kick ass Indian Casino down the street instead. I promptly went inside, put on my shortest skirt, my tightest, lowest top and doused myself in so much perfume I smelled sweeter than a French Whore House - when its 95 degrees out with no breeze that shit straight lingers. At about 8pm my sister, cousin, niece and I peeled out to the casino, which should change its name from Bluewater to Bluehair. I’m pretty sure they have weekly drink specials for anyone hooked up to an oxygen tank. This particular weekend it was dead – shocker - and I couldn’t very well show up the Ox’s cougar with my very own Silverback, who may or may not have control of his own bowels. You followin' my National Geographic shit?<br /><br />So, we hop in the whip, which in this case was my sick ass Jetta GLS, and go to the Roadrunner, a river-front bar that serves a 60oz. drink called the Roadraper. What’s better than a drink with the word rape in it? Nothing, that’s what. Who needs roofies when you’ve got the Raper? Gotta admire things that get right to the point. Unfortunately, this little gem of an establishment was also dead. Our options were either Willie Nelson’s toothless grinning twin at the bar or Dom Delius’s chunkier cousin who was staring from two tables down. I’d fuck just about any man: fat, short, tall, skinny, bald, dreaded, hairy and horny but I couldn’t get a hard on for either of these trailer treasures. After about an hour of being somewhere between bored and bored we bone the fuck out. My sister keeps a death grip on her Roadraper refusing to part with it. See, chicks dig it.<br /><br />Just before the last turn to my brother’s house my car passes an Arizona Deputy traveling the opposite direction… until, of course, he immediately flips a bitch, rides my ass and lights me up. This is no good. The car is flooded with a blinding tractor beam ray and I was half hoping this was in fact an alien invasion as opposed to a traffic stop. I pull my ride over and out of the eye-piercing glare walk’s a teenager with a shockingly severe acne problem, pants hiked up to his nipples and a badge. I jump in my seat a bit. He notes this, taps on my window. I roll it down and study what it is I’m looking at. I mean this guy could be Freddy Krueger for Halloween and not have to buy a mask. They clearly do not run Proactiv commercials around these parts… or have mirrors… or soap… or friends that clue you in.<br /><br /><em>“Clocked yew at farty two in a tharty fave, were you off ta in such a hurry?”</em> Freddy Krueger asks.</div><br /><div align="left">I’m sorry, did I take a wrong turn and we’ve somehow found ourselves in the Ozarks? Where’s the kid with the banjo?<br /><br /><em>“Nowhere sir, just going back home to my brother’s house down the road there.”</em><br /><br /><em>“Lisanse and registration, and foller me to the back of the ve-hickle, ma’am.”</em><br /><br />Ma’am? I’m like a year older than this pig. But his face scares me and he’s Johnny Fuckin’ Law, so I oblige. He immediately proceeds to give me a field sobriety test, which I pass. Ain’t gonna catch me gettin’ any DUIey’s. No way, no how bitches. I can tell Freddy is pissed, he expected some shit to go down and was spittin’ mad. He starts pressuring me to search the “ve-hickle.” Uh-oh; I’ve got a cowboy on my hands with butt loads of pent up high school aggression to take out on someone who is nowhere near as unfortunate as he is. I mean this kid is a skinnier version of Pizza the Hut; his face actually looked to be melting in several different areas. I try to tell him I don’t understand why any of that is necessary, I haven’t done anything to warrant a vehicle search. He does not like my resistance.<br /><br /><em>“Ma’am…”</em><br /><br />Dick. Again with the ma’am.<br /><br /><em>“Ma’am, if you have nothin’ to hide than thur should be no problim with my inspecktin’ ur ve-hickle. Now we can be her all night, it don’t make no diffarance ta me."</em><br /><br />I know this prick really has no right to search my vehicle. I listen to Jay Z. But I lack that intimidating black gangster rapper vibe you need to back yo’ shit up. I’ve got a miniskirt and boobs and this guy is not giving up. I mean I can practically rest my chin on my tits and he hasn’t looked below my neckline once. Probably never seen a pair of funbags and has no idea what they are. I’m sure he thinks I have some pectoral inflammatory disease or some shite. That or he can’t see them over his raised, puffy facial goiters. I, eventually, reluctantly agree to let him search my vehicle, which was a dumb shit move on my part. Always fight The Man to the end. He pulls all the girls out of the car. Lines us up Usual Suspect style against the chain link fence. It was a typical family affair.<br /><br />This is when I realize I’m going to jail. In my haste, to get out of the Ox’s presence I grabbed the same purse that I had on the boat earlier, which had a tiny bit of what was left of my happy plant in it. I practice a serious green lifestyle at the river. It’s somewhere in the vicinity of a Phish concert and Woodstock. Sure enough, the Krueg comes up with my bag,<br /><br /><em>“Whoose pank and green bag is this?”</em><br /><br />I raise my hand which feels like it’s made of lead and step forward. Freddy freaks out, unhinges his holster. Yells at me to,<br /><br /><em>“Stay right were ya are. Don’t move.”<br /></em><br />Is this douchebaggery for real? Did he really just make for his gun? This is already the longest, worst night of my life. He asks me what is in the bag. I tell him everything that’s in it except for the Mary Jane and pipe, of course.<br /><br /><em>“Is that all?”</em><br /><br /><em>“Yes.”<br /><br />“Ya wouldn’t be lying to ma, wouldja? That would be against the law.”<br /><br />“Nope.”</em><br /><br />I figured the “less is more” motto was a good one to follow at this juncture.<br /><br /><em>“Then what’s this?!”<br /></em><br />*<strong>DUM, DUM, DUM</strong>.* He dramatically comes up with my weed kit.<br /><br /><em>“I don’t know what that is, but it’s not mine.”<br /><br />“Tell it tew tha jedge.”</em><br /><br />And like a typical Cops episode he slaps the cuffs on me – I note that on-duty is the only time a woman would let him cuff her - and hauls me off to the clink leaving my sister, cousin and niece in the dust. But not before he writes my sister an open container ticket for the RoadRaper. You can have a gun rack of sawed-off shotguns in your car, go through the drive-thru liquor store and buy a handle of Wild Turkey while ten of your kids sit in the bed of the truck, but you’ll get pinched like a motherfucker for committing a heinous crime like open container or cutting down a cactus in the great state that is Arizona. On the ride back to the jail I truly wished I was the head of a notorious gang so my henchmen would ram the car, pinning the officer as it is pushed onto the train tracks and I could make my escape just seconds before the car was struck… I’ve seen The Fugitive, like, a lot. But no, I’m just a dumb stoner who was lookin’ for a little Ox-free fun and wound up getting hassled by an adolescent redneck cowboy. Fucking rad sauce.<br /><br />The last thing you see before the big steel door to Mesa County Hell closes is the “Welcome to California” sign for an extra dash of fuck-you-you’re-fucked. The jail was home to some long-term prisoners, who lounge about like the last period bell just rang. One of the prisoners greets Freddy when we walk in,<br /><br /><em>“Hey, how’s it going Officer *wet ass explosion*?</em><br /><br />To date that is some of the gnarliest ass blowing I’ve ever heard. It was wet and loud and long and sounded a bit painful. Freddy is clearly <em>highly</em> respected around the jail. The incoming garage leads right into the booking room and I’m sat in a chair in front of one of the holding cells. Immediately I notice, but do not make direct eye contact with, a man who, no doubt, was Ed Norton’s body double in American History X. Although he was lacking the barage of different sized Schwaztika's. I know this because he's got his jumpsuit pulled down exposing his ink... it was all very Cape Fear. I was waiting for him to break out some pull ups. He sways back and forth while he eye-fucks me from the other side of the glass. At this point, because of the cuffs, I haven’t been able to adjust shit, so my miniskirt is more like a hula hoop and my nipples are a split-hair’s length from exposure. I’m practically lying in the chair because if I sit up I risk exposing not only g-string but partial labia… bitch needed to readjust, shoot.<br /><br />According to the booking whiteboard, the other two prisoners in the cell are George “American Horse” Jones Jr., an (shocking reveal here) American Indian who was charged with violating parole – awesome - and Jimmy Blanchard, who looked like a giant mound of swept-up salon hair with Birkenstocks sticking out the bottom. Hippie, like myself, was rolled for possession of the Ganj. AHX’s charges were not listed, I assumed due to lack of board space. American Horse and the Hippie both looked just as terrified of AHX as I did sitting safely on the other side of the glass. AHX starts yelling and jumping. An officer the size of a teenage elephant comes shuffling into the room.<br /><br /><em>“Dammit Sebastian, I told yous to knock that shit off. I ain’t gon’ tell ya gain.”</em><br /><br />I’m starting to think that the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family may have relocated to Arizona to run a jail. And do white trash people really name their children Sebastian? On the board it reads “Billie.” I don’t think that’s short for Sebastian, but I had bigger worries at the moment, trying not to puke at the sight of Freddy’s face in the fluorescent K-Mart lighting as he questioned me and took down my information. I could see every juicy detail of every single white and blackhead. Freddy wasn’t a fan of popping. The elephant throws a 20 lbs. blanket made of Brillo Pad material on top of me.<br /><br /><em>“Yous stirrin’ up the animals with those.”<br /></em><br />Fuck, yeah. At least someone noticed them. I don’t give a shit if it was the “animals.” After I’m questioned, its mug shot time. Something for mom’s fridge, yay! And as a bonus because I’m like a Manson-style criminal, and charged with a double felony I get pictures of all my hardcore tats taken. The butterfly tramp stamp is by far the most menacing. It must have been like Paris Hilton leaving Mr. Chow’s when they photographed all of AHX’s tattoos… or maybe they’re on file at this point. After my photo shoot, I’m then taken to a bathroom that looks like a medieval dungeon and handed some eye-shattering fluorescent orange scrubs with matching bleach-spotted Vans and boxers. Okay, ew, some prisoner’s dick and balls has rubbed up in these. I’m told to undress, shower and change into my new pretty prison uniform. I can barely touch the boxers let alone put them on. Freddy locks the dungeon door on me and I run the shower, to appear to be doing what I’m told. But there is no way in Lucifer’s Inferno of Hell that I was getting in that thing and showering. Fuck no. AHX was just washing his cock and balls in there not even an hour ago. I wait long enough for it to seem like I’m showering, never mind I’m about to exit the bathroom with my prom-do still intact. I put on my new favorite and brightly-flattering, prison uniform but leave my underwear on; prison crabs is one avenue I never really wanted to travel down.<br /><br />I exit the bathroom to find Freddy in my face, which scared the shit out of me as I feared one of the cysts might rupture in my direction. He yanks the clear plastic bag containing my belongings out of my hand and inspects the contents.<br /><br /><em>“Wer’s ur undiegarments?”</em><br /><br />Probably the first pair he’s seen besides his mom’s. I’m still not understanding why he talks like we’re filming a scene in Deliverance, but I simply move on and respond by telling him that I’m still wearing them. This sends Freddy into a near panic attack.<br /><br /><em>“Yew will dew as ur towld, dew you understand me? You’re in a world a trouble and it's time yew start realizin’ that. Now, yew will go back into that bathrewm and remove all of ur personal beelongin’s.”<br /></em><br />I march back into the Pit of Despair and “dew as ‘m towld.” Fuckin’ genius doesn’t even notice my hair’s as dry as Death Valley in July… and just as hot if I do say so myself. When I come back out, with a fresh new case of crabs, he takes me further into the back of the prison to the bedding section where I pass the women’s holding cell aka “The Beaver Trap.” I see two twitchy tweaker bitches pacing the cell and a very large, and I mean very B-I-G woman on a bunk with her back to the door somewhat firmly punching the brick cell wall. Holy shit. I always thought I could handle my own… but I never factored in prison fights. So, I grab my thin blue gymnastic-type mat and Brillo pad blanket and prepare to try and not shit myself. Freddy tells me that the women’s holding cell is for the long term inmates and I’ll be held in the drunk tank which is right next door to AHX and the boys. Yipee, never thought I'd be Xmas morning overjoyed to hear I’d be spending the night in the drunk tank next to some guy who could probably break through the wall with his head. But seriously, I had negative interest in tangoing with Tweaker Flora and Junkie Fauna nor their Orangutan, which is exactly what that thing in the corner looked like in a prison uniform. As I’m walking into my cell AHX starts screaming and pounding the glass. I cannot for the life of me understand what the fuck he is saying or what language he’s saying it <em>in</em> for that matter, it’s complete and utter gibberish.<br /><br />I try to sleep, which is impossible due to the amount of times the incoming door right outside my cell is opened and slammed shut <em>and</em> because I now fear that prison crabs have fully invaded my honey pot. I slept like Al Bundy hand-in-crouch style all damn night, trying to pretend that was enough to protect me from prison syphilis. On top of my STD issues, I’m having a blast nodding off about every 20 minutes only to reawake and repeatedly realize where I am and what happened.<br /><br />Morning finally breaks about 47 fucking hours later and I’m brought out of my 10 degree below zero drunk tank to find the Indian, Hippie and AHX shackled together at the wrist and ankle. Thank God the Arizona prison system allows for court on the weekends, which is the only positive I can draw from this experience. There is no sign of Freddy and I breathe a sigh of relief, I can only imagine how abundant that garden of zits would have appeared in the sunlight. There is a new officer taking charge of us felons who I lovingly refer to as Mongoloid or Mongo, he just had that air about him. Mongo handcuffs me, but secures only one wrist, the other bracelet just slides off my arm. I tell him I’m not properly cuffed.<br /><br /><em>“I do not want to hear any complaining, if it’s too tight that’s just too, damn bad!”</em><br /><br />Ooooo-kay. Never mind that I said they were <em>not</em> on all the way! Dipshit. I just go with it. I figure if AHX starts to lose it and break free of his shackles, not being cuffed will raise my chances of getting out of there alive. Speaking of, I quickly eye AHX's shackles to make sure they're snug and secure. We are told to line up and AHX is now directly behind me. I hear him sniff my hair. It’s creepy when a dude does that in a bar, it’s now happening to me in fucking jail by a guy who has face tattoos. Two enthusiastic thumbs up, folks. For added fun, the courthouse is three blocks down the road, so I get to walk outside in my outstandingly attractive prison uniform with The Three Stooges shackled and shuffling along behind me. I prayed to God a bus of college football hotties or something would drive by on their way to an away game so I could show off my fly new irresistible style. Before we get to the outdoor fun though we go through about ten bank vault-style steel doors and have to wait for the door behind us to close and lock before the one in front of us can be unlocked and opened. The only thing missing was being strapped to a dolly like Hannibal Lecter. AHX decides to break the ice. Goody. I have to ask him to repeat himself about five times because I cannot understand a fucking word he is saying, the reason I can’t understand a fucking word he is saying is because AHX is deaf and talks as if he’s a 5 year-old with a disability, and since one of his biceps is the size of my head it’s clear he is not disabled… at least physically. Then I see the hearing aids.<br /><br />I finally gather that he is trying to tell me that he wanted the teenage elephant to give me his blanket last night because he knows how cold it gets in the cells. And how upset he was when he wouldn’t give it to me. Now, if sacrificing your prison blanket isn’t love I don’t know what is. It was fucking cold in that brick cave. I turned back around hoping that he’d stop talking to me because it’s really hard to understand what he’s saying and I’m afraid I’ll piss him off if I say “What?” fourteen times in a row again. But he, of course, does not stop talking to me. He winks at me a lot as he talks, maybe so it’s clear that he’s flirting with me. He goes on to tell me that I shouldn’t be in there – no shit – and that I’m the prettiest girl he’s seen in his whole life (how long has he been in here?) and that I smell very good… and I even skipped the dungeon shower so that’s impressive. He offers up that he has to stay in the drunk tank cause he gets in too many fights in the Men’s Holding Cell. I’m already picturing telling people our “how we met” story. Designing neon orange wedding gowns in my head. Mongo readies to open the last vault door before we are outside in the 109 degree desert terrain. He warns AHX to,<br /><br /><em>“Stop talking, this isn’t the senior prom.”</em><br /><br />Really? Thanks, cause I thought this was just a new and creative prom theme and that I’ve been shot back in time. AHX is not amused by Mongo’s outburst. You never cock-block a shackled convict runnin’ his game, everyone knows that. He cracks his neck in a very I-could-kill-you way, as if to say “try me.” I just sort of scooted closer to AHX and flashed an “I’m with him. Now what?” smirk. Mongo opens the door and I consider running, I’m not cuffed after all. He produces a shotgun and I quickly reconsider and pray to the big guy he doesn’t <em>now</em> notice that my cuffs dangle from one wrist and think I actually am trying to escape. A squirrely guy is not someone you want holding a shotgun. This just keeps getting better and better. We have to walk at a snail’s pace because The Three Stooges can only shuffle so fast. I’m constantly told to “slow down!” as the shotgun is raised on me. I’m in neon fucking orange, in the middle of the damn desert; he’d be able to see me three miles down the road in every direction, where am I going to go?<br /><br />I’ve never been so excited to reach a courthouse and go through a preliminary hearing in all my life… until the judge enters and I see that she is roughly 101 years-old. I’m parked at the defendant’s table and The Three Stooges are sat in the jury box. If I’m being judged by these peers, this bitch is home free. It takes Judge Dinosaur with the shaking head about 5 minutes to get through my name. She finally releases me on my own recognizance and into my sister’s custody, who, praise Jesus, dragged her hung-over ass out of bed to come get me. It’s all I can do to patiently wait in my seat as she goes through the other three guys’ charges at a painfully slow, shaky-voiced pace. I was ready to take the bailiff’s gun and end it all as she struggled through AHX’s list, which included but is not limited to – possession of an illegal narcotic, possession of an illegal narcotic with the intent to sell, possession of an illegal weapon, assaulting an officer – can’t really blame him there – grand theft auto, three DUI’s and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. Out of nowhere, a *pounding* begins on the courtroom door. The bailiff opens it and one of the finest looking trailer trash couples (like Jerry Springer worthy - in its heyday) I’ve seen to date comes charging in on a rampage.<br /><br /><em>“Do not, I repeat DO NOT, release Sebastian. Our son is a rotten apple, a danger to himself and others, he’s been kicked out of our home for being a druggie and if you release him he’ll have no place to go. He’s a no good junkie!”<br /></em><br />I'm now understanding the bigger picture of AHX's life. Where things may have gone wrong for him. They are yelled at to stop with their outbursts, but the Barney Fife bailiff works himself into an uncontrollable coughing fit so they carry on until the fossil behind the judge’s bench finally works up the strength to bring down her gavel. AHX is fully sobbing at this point and, I’m not gonna lie, I was misting up. He instantly begins pleading with the judge claiming his innocence, telling her he’s been sober for seven months and to please test him. He really doesn’t want to go back to jail again, please. That’s really all I could make out through the deafness and tears. Although the pleading was much longer and heavier. I gotta say I felt for my prison boyfriend, while he looked like a skull-cracking convict dick on the outside he sounded like a little boy and the desperation behind his eyes pierced through each one of us… except his pink flamingo collecting parents, of course. It felt like he was really trying this time and just couldn’t catch a break. I never thought I’d have, well, anything in common with a near lifelong felon but I did at that moment more than anyone else sitting in that courtroom. Who knows though, I could have still be stoned... I only smoke the chron.<br /><br />Mongo interrupts the heartfelt saga when he barges in with a toothless drunk who was picked up and immediately brought to the courtroom of Judge Fossil for sentencing. I was miraculously released and ordered to return back to the jail with him. As I exited the courtroom I locked eyes with AHX and mouthed “Good luck to you” in which he responded with some gibberish I interpreted as “Thanks pretty girl, you, too. Take care of yourself.” And that was the last I saw of my prison stud. Maybe he's immortalized our love by adding me to the black and gray naked lady collage on his back, I'll always be left with that uncertainty and hope. On the walk back to the jail, the officer’s crosshairs on my back, I couldn’t help but wonder… <em>shit</em>, do I really have prison crabs?<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Never judge a multiple felon by his prison tats.<br /><br />XOXO<br /><br />Easy Lover<br /><br />*While AHX and I didn’t have sex, I’m pretty sure we shared some prison crabs and other such juices which definitely qualifies him for a consummation number. </div>Easy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-2413695258902057922009-03-10T16:01:00.000-07:002009-03-11T17:52:06.374-07:00THE BEST FUCKIN' DATE... EVER!<p align="center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=weddingringtan2.jpg" target="_blank"><img height="200" alt="Photobucket" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/weddingringtan2.jpg" width="290" border="0" /></a></p><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />The following will explain why 99.9% of the time I’m only down to fuck.<br /><br />Dating. I’d rather have five root canals, undergo Chinese water torture <em>and</em> take a hot load to the eye… flushing immediately, of course. Dating fucking blows, mainly because no one is normal, present writer included. But there are times when I see a tasty morsel and I simply must have it, even if it means going through all the awkward bullshit of a first date and the “getting to know you” crapshoot. I mean, I know there isn’t a straight man (or gay one, for that matter) out there who doesn’t appreciate a good, hot, dirty slut, but it’s kind of hard to use those tactics on the street (unless, of course, you’re a streetwalker) as opposed to in a bar where it’s the name of the game… and everyone is three sheets to the mothafucking wind.<br /><br />Last week, I was coming out of Rice Things (awesome lean teriyaki chicken dish by the way) and I passed a jaw-droppingly HOT piece of man ass on his way in. My mouth was running and I was hitting on him before my brain could even process what the hell was going on. He was on the phone, this didn’t matter to me one iota. I waited by my car, leaning, one-foot-up style, lookin’ pretty bad ass, for him to come back out of the restaurant. He bee-lined toward me. Big titties - works every time. Cue the flirting, giggling and number exchanging. He’s a fireman. I wanted him to spray me with his hose right then and there. Instantly the tingling of horniness and excitement danced through my body. Why I was excited I have no damn clue. When are dates ever awesome… or fun… or worth it? In my case, fecking NEV-ER! Peter Pan can fucking suck it, I said NEVER, fucking EVER.<br /><br />We had a couple phone convos before the weekend and there weren’t any awkward pauses and I didn’t have to do the high school bullshit and have my roommate call me on the other line, so I could make an excuse to get off the damn phone. We set a date for Saturday. Turns out, randomly, a mutual friend of ours is having a party at his restaurant. Sa-weet.<br /><br />One red flag was tossed on the field, though.<br /><br />His voicemail, on his cell phone by the way, says “You’ve reached *Hot Fireman,* Michelle and Lisa.” Huh? Who has more than one name on their cell phone; do people actually share the same one? They cost like ten dollars these days. And these were female names, unless he’s living a Jack Tripper lifestyle, this is no good. Since us two kids were gettin’ along pretty well thus far, I decided to remain Positive Patty. Patty was about to get bitch-slapped… hard.<br /><br />Saturday night rolls around. It’s go time. I’ve got everything shaved, smell like a whore factory from all the perfume and have on a new outfit, so I’m feelin’ fine as wine and confident. At about 5:00pm the text messages start to roll in: </div><div align="left"><br /><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: You around to go to the party tonight?<br /><br />We’d already discussed this a few times and I agreed to go more than once, but I guess there’s nothing wrong with a little quadruple checking.<br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: Yes, of course. What time should I expect you? </div><div align="left"><br /></div><strong></strong><div align="left"><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: Need to do some things first then off to the races. Will call u what time can u be ready<br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: Whenever you want me to be, what time will you be done so I know<br /><br />About twenty minutes go by…<br /><br /><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: What time u going<br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: Huh? I thought we were going together?<br /><br /><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: Need to get my friend an outfit first change then go can cum by after that around seven thirty give me and address. But going somewhere right after. Don’t want you to get <strong>stranded</strong> so if u want to drive there and then we can take it from there. Ok.<br /><br />Two more red flags are thrown on the field, this guy is now trying to get out of the date altogether. <em>And</em> now his friend is coming along. Although this is a mutual friend’s party, I didn’t know about it until Hot Fireman invited me, so it’d be weird to show up alone and it’d be weird anyway since this is, or was, supposed to be a date.<br /><br />*Stranded is in bold because this is not a word you want to throw out when you’re about to take a girl out. Stranded is what happens when your car breaks down, or your boat gets caught in a storm and is marooned on a deserted Island, or your flight gets canceled in some foreign city. Not something you should expect from someone who, as of less than twelve hours ago, couldn’t wait to hang out with you - unless you’re a real fucking bitch or dude was obliterated when you met and you’re a complete hose-beast – even then it would still be lame.<br /><br />At this point, I am reminded why I hate this shit before I’ve even left the house. I’m trying to stay pumped, but really just want out of the whole thing. Good thing this fucker is smokin’ fuckin’ hot.<br /><br /><strong>Me</strong>: Wasn’t really planning on driving, unless you’re really planning on stranding me.<br /><br /><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: Ok I’m in. Then I will be there around that time.<br /><br />You’re in? I didn’t invite <em>him</em> to go out. He invited me. W-T-F.<br /><br />I call his ass. Texting is some weird shit sometimes and I needed to know what the hell is going on here. He doesn’t answer. Instead: </div><div align="left"><br /></div><strong></strong><div align="left"><strong>Hot Fireman</strong>: Grilling dinner call u in forty min thx.<br /><br />Thx? I promptly go downstairs and make a drink. The comfort of an old friend is exactly what I needed at this point... or a good fuck. Since I couldn’t get a booty call lined up quick enough. Sangria and I had a little tryst.<br /><br />He calls. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">I ask him if he still wants to do this. No pressure, just sensing a little resistance. I’m trying not to be drama, but shit is already frea-kay and he hasn’t even picked me up, or decided if he’s going to. He assures me all is good, he just has to go to another party with his buddy after the one he invited me to. He’ll have to tell me the whole story one day. Huh? I mean, fucking, what is he talking about? I let him know I’m just not really into being stranded tonight. I tell him I understand if, at the party afterward, he can’t bring sand to the beach, and if that’s the reason he was mentioning me driving I get it. But I’d rather he just drop me back off at home on the way to his other party. He tells me he’s sorry for all the confusion, can’t wait to see me and he’ll be there soon, and also apologizes for all the back and forth.<br /><br />O-kay. I feel mildly better, mildly is a strong word.<br /><br />Hot Fireman arrives with Buddy. I’ve been downgraded to a threesome friend date. I can roll with it. Fuck it. We go to the first party and have a really swell time. We’re getting along just fabulously and his friend is cool. It comes time to go to the next party, and H.F. and Buddy insist I come along. I guess I passed the “cool” test. That was a close one.<br /><br />We get to the party. Walking up to the house H.F. is all over me, complimenting a bitch like a motherfucker. What I didn’t know at the time was that this was my Dead Man Walking moment. He was just buttering up the prisoner before they arrived to their ultimate doom. Inside everyone is nice. One older woman gets up and bolts toward me, “Hi, what’s your name?” I tell her. “Very nice to meet you, very nice.” Um, okay. Weird.<br /><br />H.F. introduces me to the Owner of the house and a couple other people. As I’m talking to one of them, I think I hear Owner say “wife.” Nah, he couldn’t have. Right? Wrong! Sooooo God damn wrong. I was wrong like crimped hair in the 80’s, wrong like Two Girls, One Cup, wrong like Ehhhhh *buzzer* YOU’RE WRONG, LADY! H.F. and Buddy go to the kitchen to make drinks. Owner decides he wants to take me around and introduce me to some more people. Clear as crystal he introduces me as, “This is H.F.’s wife. H.F. is in what division of the fire department, again?”<br /><br />All eyes are abruptly on me. I’m trying not to swallow my tongue, and pray to God my voice doesn’t crack when I answer, which will indicate just how thrown I am. “Uh, I’m not H.F.’s wife.” </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br />The Owner looks like he could cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to try and remove the gigantic foot I just shoved in my mouth, although I’m pretty sure it’ll be impossible.”<br /><br />The other people standing there are now looking at me like I’m some young, 20-something year old tart, who’s getting played, which pretty much sums up exactly what I was. H.F. was watching all this go down from a distance in the kitchen. I excuse myself to the bathroom.<br /><br />Bathroom: I text two of my girls, telling them, reminding them, why I only like to fuck guys. I, literally, like some cheesy romantic comedy, look out the window to check the distance to the ground. This party is all of three blocks from my house. I could be home in ten minutes tops. I decide to breathe instead; I’ve been holding my breath for two straight minutes now. H.F. knocks on the door, “You okay in there?”<br /><br />“Uh, huh. Dandy. Be right out.” I decide to remain cool; I’m not a scene-maker. This is H.F.’s deal, not mine. He’s the one still married and dating. I don’t want to get into it too much in front of a bunch of random people at a party, but I have a few simple little questions. I come out and H.F. is standing right outside the door.<br /><br />“You okay?”<br /><br />“Yeah, so you’re still married?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime.”<br /><br />So far this fucker will have to put me on his knee one day and share a whole weeks worth of tales. He, painfully, continues, “Yeah, she’s actually on a date right now, I don’t even want to think about it.”<br /><br />Jealous husband. One of my all time favorite traits in a first date, I don’t know about the rest of you. This was going just swimmingly. I hoped it would never end.<br /><br />“We’ve got a three year-old and it’s hard, you know.”<br /><br />I nod, but no, I fucking don’t know. No clue. I’m not married, have no kids and generally don’t like to drown people in my Katrina-size flood of baggage and issues. I just ask him to assure me he hasn’t brought me into a hornet’s nest, which he does. Its 11pm, H.F. has already warned me he has to leave around midnight because he works early the next day. One hour, I can do this. I ask him to bring me another beer, fuck this; bitch is gettin’ a buzz on. No longer concerned with being the “little lady.”<br /><br />He returns, and is now all over me, dialing the flirting up to Max. He’s hot, and I’m not gonna lie it was working. His phone, by the way, is BLOWING up hard. Wifey must be home from said date. An Asian woman approaches us, “Hey H.F., your wife is Japanese right? Do you speak Japanese? Blah, blah, blaaaah.”<br /><br />I begin an inner-dialogue in my head. Japanese? How well do these people know H.F.? If you specifically meant to design a woman opposite of an Asian woman it would be me, in every sense and case of the design. I don’t consider myself insecure in the slightest, in fact I could do with some insecurity at times, because I’ve been told I can act cocky, but something about the White man/Asian fetish really gets me. It’s a fetish that always borderlines obsession and I know I can’t compete with it, ever. Unless I become like “Catwoman” and undergo some serious Nip/Tuck freak-style plastic surgery. I get it, Asian women are hot (not all, but most). White boys can catch themselves some serious Yellow Fever and the Great White Glory cannot under any circumstance cure it, only possibly Nuprin can, “Little, yellow, different.”<br /><br />As they continue on about Japanese and wives, I, once again, excuse myself to the bathroom. My “sane” room. I don’t even give a shit if the whole party thinks I’m droppin’ deuces and blowin’ it up in there. I come out to find Buddy, “Hey how’s it goin’?”<br /><br />“Just great! Awesome time.” He’ll always have to wonder, sarcastic or sincere? Since he doesn’t know me well enough to know its complete and utter sarcasm. I can’t help but try and get some insider information. “So, H.F. is still married I hear. “<br /><br />He nods.<br /><br />“But separated, right?” He gives me one of those faces like he’s just seen someone hit hard by something. I guess I wasn’t hiding it as well as I thought. He shakes his head, and pretty much gives me the impression that H.F. and wife have been having trouble for about three years now, but they have a kid so it’s been rough. As far as I can tell they still live together but date other people. I try not to preach, but without being able to control it I respond with, “Wow, that’s great for a kid to be around, for sure. I totally get it now.”<br /><br />He gives me the, I-agree-but-he’s-my-buddy-and-I-know-a-lot-more-of-the-inside-story-so-I-get-it-more-than-you look. He has a very expressive face. I let him off the hook and continue to have the best time I can. Midnight is here, yay! I get to turn into a pumpkin. Never in my whole life have I been so excited to leave a party and sit alone in my house. He tells me everyone really likes me and I seem like I’m having fun so I’m more than welcome to stay, he checks his phone about three times as he tells me this. I go with, "I came with you and I’d like to leave with you." I think to myself, but thanks for the (fucking weird) offer.<br /><br />He drops me off. I summon a booty call.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: No man in L.A. is single, but he will still shamelessly date you. He’ll tell you he’s single, but he’s definitely got a wife, fiancé, girlfriend, someone he’s dating, mistress, dominatrix, hooker, or massage parlor somewhere. The ratio of single women versus single men in this town is 1,000,000,000 to 1. Dating rocks! </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">XOXO</div><div align="left">Easy Lover </div>Easy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-92042824465911754282009-01-27T21:14:00.001-08:002009-03-10T17:24:38.408-07:00CONFESSIONS OF A COCKOHOLIC<p align="center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=bulge2.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/bulge2.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p>My name is Easy Lover and I'm a Cockoholic. The below is just one of multiple testimonies as to why.<br /><br />My co-worker has one of the biggest, tastiest looking dick bulge's I've seen in a loooooong time.<br /><br />It's large, curvy and, well, large. It's all I care about these days. Sometimes I go home after work and sit in the darkness clicking my floor lamp on and off while I listen to Madame Butterfly because it's all I live for lately and, yet, we're still not together. I'm slowly beginning to resemble Smeagol, my shoulders are slouching and I wring my hands in a maniacal way whenever D.B., my "preeeecious," is within reach. My obsession, or, um, disease, has begun to hinder my job performance, which was satisfactory at best to begin with.<br /><br />I realize dicks are everywhere. The grocery store, museums, zoos, schools, malls, the dentist office (mine is hot, hot, hot), church, old folks homes - if you're into that kind of thing. I should have a better handle on this. This isn’t the first one I’ve seen, or played with, or sat on. In fact, I even make sure to get laid on a regular basis, but this is no help. I tell you, this is the bulgiest bulge in all of Bulgeville. It’s simple stunning. I have no choice but to stare. None. It’s beyond my capabilities. For my disease there is no cure. No dick is not a cure for dick lovers. Alcoholics can stay out of the liquor store, druggies can stay out the back alley, hookers can stay off the street corner, but everywhere you go, without fail, there are dicks. Morning, noon and night – dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I mean there are entire stores and industries based around the dick. And I am only getting worse. Significantly worse. The other day, it grew quiet at work and the slow ticking of the clock began ridiculing me, Dick… Dick… Dick… I thought my ears were going to bleed. It wasn’t until I noticed everyone staring at me that I realized I was clicking my pen incessantly like it was some dick morphine drip inserted into my arm.<br /><br />First of all, to make matters unbearable, D.B. is constantly being flaunted around the office. Someone in my condition can't be in the CONSTANT presence of such a gloriously abundant meat stick. I mean, there is no reason co-worker can't wear a nice roomy pair of Hammer pants or possibly a kilt - he is Irish after all. But no, instead he accentuates the shit out of D.B., wearing designer jeans that 'pull' in all the right places and in some that simply baffle me. I am, therefore, <em>forced</em> against my will to check it out non-stop <em>and</em> from various angles. I know when it's leanin' to the right and I know when it's leanin' to the left. I have 12-hour surveillance on D.B. at all times. It's my equivalent to too much cleavage. I stare. I foam. I drool. I'm fucking obsessed.<br /><br />Co-worker sits four feet six inches from me at work and I swear that is the <em>exact</em> length of his dick when it's unrolled. His desk faces mine and when he gets up to do... whatever (he always tells me, but I can't hear him over Handel Messiah's "Hallelujah Chorus," which blares in my head every time I'm in the presence of D.B.), I peek over my computer screen and blatantly ogle. There is no way he doesn't see me do this and yet he still continues to get up from his desk on a daily basis. I mean stay seated for Christ's sake. For extra fun, when co-worker comes to talk to me at my desk, he's <em>juuust</em> the right height, so D.B. floats perfectly above the horizon of my desk like a genie waiting to grant me my one true wish, which in this case would be a shiny new pearl necklace. I can feel that cunt monster with his one-eye on me taunting, harassing and laughing as I'm trying to look at everything but the gigantic hovering cock inches away from my face. I look like I constantly have something in my eye. It's like a train wreck; you're drawn to it like there are magnets in your pupils. You know you shouldn't look, but dammit you <em>have</em> to.<br /></p><p>Wait. D.B. is on the move. There he goes. Jigglin' by like a "joey" bouncin' around in his mama's pouch. He winked as he passed by my desk. I saw him twitch under the zipper, like he was waving. I want to suck his sweet nectar. I lose concentration sometimes, sorry.<br /><br />On top of the constant harassment from D.B., I've been forced to masturbate in the bathroom at work. On the bright side, I work in a fucking sausage factory so the chances of one of the four chicks in the office walking in are slim to not gonna fucking happen. I could <em>never </em>masturbate with just my hand before I got this job. Never. Now I'm in and out in the time it takes to piss. I start pulsating at my desk like the mother ALIEN. The walk to the bathroom warms her up and then all it takes is a flick or two of the bean, I bear down and To the Moon Alice! That's a vital fucking job quality mastered if you ask me.<br /><br />Not surprisingly, D.B. has wrecked my, already fragile, concentration. I doodle Mrs. D.B. when I'm supopsed to be taking notes and I can't hear people talking to me anymore. I'm simply too wrapped up in my fantasies of D.B. and I holding hands and running along the sand at the beach, or having a snowball fight in the mountains, or making love under the stars. Just me and D.B. D.B. and me. Until I finally realize that constant, annoying sound ringing in my ears is my boss asking me a question.<br /><br />I've never had a problem boning any co-worker, in fact, besides the paycheck it's my favorite thing about work. D.B. is certainly a top-notch candidate. But I went ahead and made good friend's with D.B.'s best friend, co-worker. We even write together. So, I don't know, maybe its old age that's causing me to care about shit I never would before, like common sense, but whatever it is I wish it would stop and let me be the fun, irresponsible slut I’ve always been. Why does sex have to change things, dammit? It's simply hand shaking with different body parts, just a little bit stickier. Why if D.B. and I get together do things have to change for co-worker and me? These are the daily issues that surround a cockoholic like me.</p><p></p><p>But, please, don't think for one second this means it won't happen. Like a small, cute little mouse parading around a python in its tank, just because I'm full and content now doesn't mean I won't strike. In fact, I still have yet to christen this job, so no one is safe and packing a Kielbasa in your shorts certainly ain't gonna help matters.</p><p></p><p>To top all of this off, co-worker has the audacity to order a pair of size 13 shoes and ask my opinion of them. I mean, really? Now he's just teasing the animal, which is never a nice thing to do. Let me just parade in front of your desk in my new size 13 shoes - which look like every other pair of shoes I own - with my huge dick bulge bouncing around everywhere acting like I don't know just how huge my cock is down to the centimeter. Reeeal cool, buddy.</p><p></p><p>So, it's pretty clear cut... or maybe it's not cut - that's one thing I can't tell from outside the pants. I am weak, I suffer from a disease. A disease which haunts me everywhere I go and is now threatening my job security. If it's a crime to look, then it should be a crime to make me look. I don’t ask for D.B. to be there, he’s just… there. All the fucking time. Every day. All day. Forever. </p><p><br /></p><p>The moral of THIS story: Don't blog about how big your co-worker’s dick bulge is on your work computer... unless, of course, you suffer from cockoholism like me and don't even realize you did. </p><p><br />XOXO</p><p>EASY LOVER</p>Easy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-55426258185892595052009-01-27T17:02:00.000-08:002009-03-10T17:24:56.408-07:00THE DICK HUNTER<p align="center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=dickhunter.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="dick hunter" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/dickhunter.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br /><br />My adventures in dick hunting have led me on some wild journeys. Some good, some bad, but <em>always</em> bat shit crazy. Now, while I would never recommend anyone venture out into the wild in search of dick, it has certainly left me with quite the collection of sordid tales and notches on the ‘ol bedpost. Every once in a while nature mixes itself in with pleasure. This is why, in certain circles, I am known as The Dick Hunter. My experience, up until now, in nature's kingdom has solely been with snake charming. And while I’ve charmed a considerable amount of pink snakes<em>(Pinkus Snakus),</em> from Gardener-size to the impressively ample Anaconda, nothing quite compares to this.<br /><br />This is the story of #20, who was filled with surprises aplenty. (Rhyming is cool.)<br /><br />The river in Parker, AZ. – my Graceland, my paradise, my people - a little gift from Heaven for all us male and female whores… but with water, and boats and tattoos (I just *creamed* my work chair… literally. I was wearing a skirt with tights earlier, and what you may or may not know is that sitting in a pair of tights for too long makes you itch like you’ve bathed in Poison Oak for ten hours, then dried off and dressed yourself in it, so I ditched the fuckers, and the v-string I’m wearing is all stretched out and shit – hate that.). I’ve conquered and divided my fair share of river cock and never walked away - in some cases bowlegged - disappointed. But there’s one defeat that just simply seems to stand out a skosh more than the rest.<br /><br />The ragin’ nightlife in Parker consists of the Indian Casino, The Bluewater or the riverfront bar, The Roadrunner – compound words rock! You can only get to the latter by way of one desolate road that parallels the river and is more commonly known as DUI Drive aka You Ain’t Fucking Getting Me to Go Down It Avenue. No sir. Johnny Law is one dick I don’t like to fuck with. Been there, done that - story for another time.<br /><br />This is why I found myself standing on the casino floor watching blue hairs feed their Social Security into the Wheel of Fortune slots. In addition to the stale cigarette-soaked Game Room off the Main Floor, the casino has a really sweet cover band on the weekends and by sweet I mean absolutely shitty. No matter, this is where the dudes hang and look for bitches to bang. I call it the Hang ‘n Bang… the rooms <em>are</em> right upstairs and come in quite handy. Trust.<br /><br />River people are a certain type of folk and they even tend to live in the same areas. This is why it didn’t surprise me to find a whole pack of fresh young bucks in matching racing singlet’s from the South Bay, or as some locals refer to it Mouth Bay, which happens to be my home sweet home. I’m usually too drunk to recognize, well, anyone. My roommate, however, has a freaky, photographic I-saw-you-four-years-ago-in-Vons memory and recognized every last one of them. These were our types of ho’s fo sho, so I knew I was gettin’ laid.<br /><br />This is where I met Rio. Always thought Rio was some chick dancing on the sand somewhere, but in this case Rio was a tall, thick-shouldered sexy beast who was doing “The Worm” across the dance floor in a cheesy Indian casino in Arizona – I mean what’s sexier than the Worm? I cruise over and instantly start worming right above him - NOT my smoothest move - and we *smack* chin to skull. Felt great after drinking all day in the 113-degree Arizona desert sun. Fortunately for me he was pretty lit and had a head as hard as sheet rock (God willing the other one was, too) and he appreciated my enthusiasm in joining in on one of the most celebrated moves in dance history. After our “accident” we needed some booze to ease the pain and headed to the bar to “get to know each other”… or just make out.<br /><br />Like I said I have a shit memory, no thanks to Mary Jane, but I just knew I knew this kid. By some weird twist of fate, this is when he tried to run some game on me and pulled out a Paramount Studios ID, which is where I worked at the time. Yes! That's it. We work together. I must have seen him around the studio... but where? Talk about small fucking world, to Worm with someone 400 hundred miles away from home that is not only from the same town, your exact age, went to your rival high school, but also works at the same fucking place! Shit was gettin’ freaky.<br /><br />He asked me a few questions about work: What do you do? Who do you work for? What building do you work in? When I tried to get the same info out of him he pretty much dodged it and pulled me onto the dance floor. I probably would have pressed the issue had I not been forced into the Electric Slide with all the Parker Tweakers and part of the band, The Salty Needles (not fucking kidding). Later, as we Macarena’d (haven’t had the displeasure since Spring Break), busted out the Kid ‘n Play and grinded to PYT, I couldn’t stop racking my brain. It’s like when you’re watching a movie and recognize an actor, but can’t remember their name or where you've seen them before. Frustrating shit, man.<br /><br />The nights end relatively early in Arizona and as this one was drawing to a close Rio informs me that he’s staying at his buddy’s house in Blythe, a good 50 miles away from Parker, where I am staying with family and friends at my brother’s house. He assures me he’ll drive me back the next day, and that they are planning on launching in Parker early in the morning anyway. He's hot. I'm ready to bone. Sold. There’s just one <span style="font-size:78%;">tiiiiiiiny</span> problem.<br /><br />Doug.<br /><br />Doug is my unofficial bodyguard, but mainly my brother’s middle-aged friend who is 250 lbs. on a skinny day and drunk seven days out of the week. He thinks a 12-pack after work is perfectly normal, I disagree, and that’s a bold statement seeing as I drink like fucking Moby Dick. But I also don’t have to crack a bloody beer just to ease the hangover so I can rise out of bed to go to work… that’s only on Sunday’s… and there is no work to get to. Anyway, Doug lets me know as often as I’ll listen that he would do anything for me, except of course not be my shadow when I’m trying to pick some unsuspecting prey off a herd. When I smacked Rio’s head he pushed <em>him</em> out of the way to see if I was alright and the whole thing was my fucking fault. He’s sweet, but I’m just not attracted to a man that looks like he's most possibly related to the Walrus family. So I asked my roommate to cover me, she’s used to my whorish tendencies and could clearly pick these guys out of a line up if need be, and made my escape when Doug hit the head.<br /><br />The running start really helped me get into the truck, which was raised nearly 50ft. off the ground. I sardined myself in the back with what felt like a clown car of bros.<br /><br /><strong>Note:</strong> These are South Bay bros, not to be confused with O.C. bros - who I still have love for - but while some S.B. bros do drive the raised truck they lack that New Jersey Guido feel that O.C. bros seem to channel (spiked hair, “hard core” buddy pics, sign throwing, etc.). Thankfully the sun over the Pacific is unable to produce that signature neon orange tan the Jersey shore so effortlessly provides.<br /><br />Lying across them, I could feel boners pokin’ me from neck to ankle, like some fucked up bed of nails. It was kinda cool actually, except for the one jammed into my neck causing a serious kink.<br /><br />The road back to Blythe can be found in any standard horror movie. It’s lit only by moonlight, no other cars ever seem to be coming from the opposite direction nor is there ever any driving behind you. You can only see as far as your headlights and as they illuminate each shrub and cactus you pass you swear a psycho with a chainsaw is going to jump out from behind it, causing the car to swerve, flip and kill us all. I like horror movies, can you tell? At any rate, here we are at 12:30a.m. driving through the vast, never-ending, can’t-see-shit desert. You know what that means right? Of course you do. The truck breaks down. Oh, yes, yes it does. It <em>never </em>has before, but it went ahead and decided now would be a good first time. Never fear, these are racing dudes, grease monkeys, steel jockeys. They can fix <em>anything</em>. WRONG. Being the only bitch at the cock fest I called for a tow truck, as I’m being told I’m going to have to cancel it because “they fucking got this.” Being in the dead center of Butt Fuck Egypt, I’m told – no joke – that a tow truck wouldn’t be able to get out to us for another three hours. Come again? You’d think we’d be higher on the rescue list, our survival being a little more at risk and all, but no, oh no, we had to wait for them to phone Bubba, the no doubt 300lbs. local tow truck driver, whose probably been passed out for hours from the pint of Thunderbird and18-pack of Pabst he polished off earlier.<br /><br />After an hour of failed repair attempts, and run around calls from local police this was getting less and less fun by the millisecond. Since we were just a little over 5 miles from town Rio decides we could crawl back faster at the rate we’re going, and that the tow truck could pick us up on the way into town should it come before we make it back ourselves. Seeing as its one long isolated stretch of hell they can’t miss us. Hmm, lemme think, walk through the middle of the desert to a destination I’ve never been, alone with a guy I just met at roughly 1:30 in the morning? Sounds like a plan to me. I may not be the brightest bulb on the tree, but I sure know a good time when I hear one. So off we went. First, I changed into one of the dudes flip flops which were 2-3 sizes too big because my Jessica Simpsons weren’t going to cut it for a desert nature walk.<br /><br />Even though it’s only 5 miles and was nighttime, it’s the middle of August so it’s still about 90 degrees out. After the second mile I started to feel like Clark Griswald in Vacation. So Rio and I decide to take a break, which of course, means make out which, of course, means fuck. Who can make out and not have sex these days? If you can, my hat’s off to you. Not sure why you’d want to, but, hey, to each his own. So, we move off the main road I’d say about a hundred or so feet using the moonlight and his lighter as our only source of light. We find a suitable rock since he’s about a foot taller than I am, especially now that I'm rockin' the Rainbow flats, and prepare for a little Howl at the Moon session.<br /><br />On the rock I go, and we’re off. I must say I was impressed with my balance as I’m being pumped from behind at an alarming rate of speed and taking some serious thrusting action – thank you gymnastics for not only balance but endurance. I’m gettin' all into it, moaning, screaming, panting. The stars above us were just magical and there’s something extra special about outdoor sex, kinda like outdoor cooking, that makes it super juicy and it was really makin' this bitch hot. The outdoors, unfortunately, also possess other things, wild things and this was definitely their house we were fucking in.<br /><br />At first I thought it was Rio making the noise. A sort of weird kind of hissing – hey, I ain’t judgin’ some people do some weird shit when they’re gettin’ off. It grew louder and then a *rattle* began to ring out. Rio and I froze just as quickly as we had started pumping. I couldn’t remember if you’re supposed to freeze around a snake or take off like hell fire, but we both froze so I went with it. I heard him moan, probably because he was still in me and I instantly tightened up. I mean I was trying to balance and remain completely motionless while teetering on a rock in a fucking yoga pose. We then heard movement of a sort, like dirt and small rocks shifting on the ground. In a light, silent breath Rio barely squeaks out, “Don’t move.” It’s somewhere behind him.<br /><br />In the dead still desert it is deafeningly silent, so the sound of the rattling filled my head like I was standing next to the amp at a heavy metal concert. It was so LOUD I could barely think. The only thing constantly going through my mind, like on one big continuous loop, was the words “difficulty breathing, paralysis, drooling, massive hemorrhaging and eventual death are common symptoms.” Thanks to my shit luck in the third grade during a zoo field trip I drew California Rattlesnake (not anything cute like a Polar Bear or Cheetah, no, a fucking nasty snake) for my animal to study. The above phrase was all that stuck with me from my ingeniously thorough report. I, of course, couldn’t recall anything useful, like what to do when you encounter one or what to do when you’re bit by one, nope, just that the cold hard inevitability of death would come to us if this thing got a piece.<br /><br />At this point, neither of us knows exactly where it is and if we move we have to do so at the exact same time, so the fucker doesn’t bite one of us. Dude is still in me. What I’m now picturing is him pulling out, the snake striking, and all of a sudden I’m sucking a whole different kind of juice out of his dick. No thanks… but, you know, I’d probably do it. Right now though, I’m trying not to slip off a rock wearing flip flops that are more like flippers. I've got one tit flopped out of my bra, which Rio's hand is firmly gripping, slightly for pleasure but mainly for support at this juncture. He's behind me, pants around his ankles, dick in, but pretty much limp at this point, trying not to breathe.<br /><br />We’re standing paralyzed, facing the road, a good distance away, when we hear a car slowly approaching. Then oh-so-quietly, voices ring out followed by honking and a set of lights that are most definitely attached to a tow truck... which is driving right <em>fucking </em>by us. Right on. We need to get the feck out of here, now. The rocks kick up again, to our left this time and the rattling gets more erratic, fading in and out. As if linked by our overwhelming desire to not be struck by a rattlesnake and left behind for dead we both take off to the right in one swift synchronized motion. Had there been an Olympic sport for rock jumping while fucking we would have scored a perfect 10 across the board. Rio shuffles along with his pants around his ankles until he can get them up and I’m taking long ridiculous strides trying not to eat shit over my flippers like some goose-stepping Korean/Nazi soldier or something. Seeing as we were trying to get the hell out of dodge and also trying to chase down a truck we weren’t really taking our time or using our only light source to avoid all the cactus and tumbleweed thorn debris along the awesome desert terrain. I could feel how wet my legs were from the blood and my feet were numb from pain five minutes ago. Sa-weet. I figured a snake bite would hurt worse, so I buckled down.<br /><br />We make it to the road and it’s the chase-down-the-train-or-get-the-conductor-to-hear-you-and-stop scene. Rio and I are booking it like Jackie Joyner-Kersey and Steve Prefontaine. I’m screaming “STOP” at the top of my lungs since I know no one’s name in the damn truck while Rio is calling out all of his buddy’s nicknames like Santa announcing some fucked up reindeer lineup, BOOMER! BULL! TACO! G-MONEY! The headlights seemed to be pulling away from us and while we hadn’t run that far we were running like our asses were on fire… and it was still about 90 degrees out. Rio’s desperately trying not to slow down while checking his pockets for his phone, which is nowhere to be found. It’s probably going through the slow digestion process of a rattlesnake. Aw, damn! Rattlesnake fact number 2, right there. On top of that, he didn’t have any of their numbers memorized; thank you modern technology for speed dialing. I checked my phone - a free upgrade when I renewed my plan, so, you know, it was pretty top-notch - which had no signal. This was evident by the NO SIGNAL text that appeared in place of my bars. In fact, I don't know what is more useless in an emergency situaiton than a cell phone, which never fucking works in places where serious emergencies tend to happen, like high in the mountains, or in the middle of the ocean, or, say, I don't know, deep in the MOJAVE FUCKING DESERT where there are snakes and serial killers, perhaps! Eventually, we saw the lights dim to blackness far down the road and we were fucked. And not in the way either of us wanted to be. We probably had only about three miles to go, but with our feet looking and feeling like ground hamburger meat it might as well have been twenty.<br /><br />I’m about to start doing something dramatic, like screaming at the sky, asking why God why, when a pair of headlights appear in the distance. Radical. Our serial killer is right on schedule. As the car nears, I see that it’s a small beat up work truck. In other words, Doug! This was officially the first time I was glad he was stalking me. He always told me I’d thank him for it one day, and each time I thought it was totally creepy; as it turns out he’s right. I never told him that though. At first he tried to deny Rio a ride to which I laughed at and responded, “Move over” and we squeezed into his tiny one bench truck. So here I am, sandwiched in this munchkin truck between my evening’s booty call and my brother’s crazy friend who loves me. With Doug looking over to give Rio hard looks every 7 seconds this was already the longest car ride of my life. He refused to take me and Rio to his buddy’s place so we had to make the nearly 50 mile trek back to Parker, which we did in complete silence. That is until Rio and I had a complete crack up, the evening’s events finally sinking in. Doug just drove on, staring straight ahead, wearing his best scowl.<br /><br />When I got home I didn’t hear from Rio for over a week. I was a little bummed, but not surprised. It’s standard to fuck a guy and not hear from him; in fact it’s usually protocol. Also, to quote SPEED, the bad ass Keanu Reeves action flick, which I watched on Encore last night, “Relationships that start under intense circumstances never last.” I think our little desert exploit would certainly fall under intense. I’d look for him around the studio, but could never find him. I would wonder about him. What the hell does he do? What building is he in? Or who’s office? One day I came to work, like I do any other day, dragging my still cut up, injured feet along in the employee line to get through the Paramount gates when who should I see sitting behind the Security Desk in uniform sportin’ a nametag with his real name on it? That’s right, my Rio in the sand. I <em>knew</em> I knew him. I should have been looking at uniforms not suits. We boned for a few months after that but it eventually fizzled out. I think we blew the provincial wad of our relationship in the desert that night and there was no getting it back. Who knew Speed was so intuitive?<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Damn, it’s a small world. Ain't it?<br /><br />XOXO<br /><br />EASY LOVEREasy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-62658789456088787432008-12-02T15:18:00.000-08:002009-06-04T14:54:47.464-07:00THE REAL ELEPHANT MAN<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://s13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/?action=view&current=babysarm.png" target="_blank"><img alt="baby's arm" src="http://i13.photobucket.com/albums/a270/Bl0ndie_1979/babysarm.png" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />My first time was much like what most girls have described their first time to be like, quick, painful and left with a “That’s it?” feeling. Since it was <em>such</em> a horrible experience, I did what all the rest of you did, I did it again and again and again and found out the second, third and fourth time around what all the hot, filthy, wild fuss was about. On top of the awkwardness of the first time, and too many pubes between the two of us, #1 was fucking HUNG, skinny white boys – may not look it, but they pack some serious fucking heat. It felt like I had lost my virginity to a telephone pole or the Jolly Green Giant or a 2x4. It wasn’t until seven hopeful candidates following #1 that I met his challenger and the current reigning champion.<br /><br />This is the story of #9, who blasted me open like a gold mine.<br /><br />#9 was a South African living in Australia. One of my best friend’s in life was studying abroad, so naturally I came to visit and check out the “local fare.” She was living in Brisbane, and took me to one of the downtown bars, The Family Circus. All I remember seeing across the room was a skin tight white thermal straining to contain some of the sexiest fucking bulging back muscles I’ve ever seen. My clit skips a beat, she approves. I've found my souvenir.<br /><br />I mosey up to the bar to “order a drink,” touching my elbow to his, and miraculously conversation is struck. He was a blonde-haired, sparkly blue-eyed, accent-wielding, scuba-dive teaching South African hottie. Complete fuck material. I didn’t care what he said, I just cared that he said it with an accent… and had nice pecs. This guy was every fucking sexy foreigner stereotype imaginable (Scuba diving instructor, seriously?), which kicks ass for a horny American slut like me. His buddy is gay, and mine is dating an Australian who’s out of town, so they keep each other company. His friend is an older gentleman, rich and, without a doubt, man-crushing on his straight pal. He keeps the drinks coming, so he’s a-o.k. in my book – even if mine may be roofied. South Africa and I are vibing. Like brush-my-ass-across-his-cock-on-the-dance-floor vibing. I feel what can only be described as an elephant trunk. Needless to say, this shit was ON mothafuckas.<br /><br />We close the joint down and I go with South Africa back to Richie Rich’s house somewhere in the Australian suburbs. (<strong>NOTE</strong>: Do not, I repeat DO NOT, be a 21 year-old IDIOT like me and go off with two men you don’t know in a foreign country while your friend goes home to sleep and has no idea where you are. This was pre-Natalee Holloway, but still highly retarded. Thank you for listening to this public service announcement.) Anyway, this time I managed to escape the danger that could possibly ensue after going home with two strange men and instead stumbled upon some of God’s most beautiful work.<br /><br />Once we get to Richie Rich’s house – who is completely cross-eyed fucked up at this point – he gives me the complete tour of the premises, including the luxurious tool shed. It was a beautiful house for sure, but like four bedrooms beautiful, not fifteen and I had other things on my mind, very <em>large</em> things, probably the same things he had on his mind. We finally get to the guest bedroom, where South Africa is lounging on a massive Granddaddy of a California King bed; I mean the size of my apartment massive, and it’s covered with a gargantuan white down comforter and equally ridiculous white sheets with white pillows. It was like a cloud from heaven floating in the middle of the room with a big-dicked man resting on it waiting for me to come and sit on it (damn, that shit really was heaven). You practically had to squint to look at the bed straight on. South Africa is holding two glasses of wine and looks like some type of homo-erotic mattress ad. I close my eyes, readying myself for a frolic through dick heaven on a giant Serta cloud with Elephant Man when…<br /><br />I am stopped by Richie Rich, who is making me feel the quality of the blanket while he proceeds to go into an extensive, life-draining Martha Stewartesque explanation of his custom-made bed with custom sheets and custom pillows. We’ve got a drunken gay man discussing home décor and possibly trying to cock block; we could be here ‘til morning. He tells us that his friend made and stained the bed out of the finest Australian Timber available, and that the sheets are four billion thread count, and blah, blah, blah. I mean he’s very sweet, but Niagra Falls is gushing between my legs because South Africa won’t stop giving me bedroom eyes, so it’s kind of hard to give a shit about Egyptian cotton. South Africa is over it too and escorts his friend to bed. He’s back not three seconds later sportin’ a boner the size of a Titan rocket. I hoped to God that Richie Rich didn’t help him try to launch it. He takes a flying leap into the bed and we attack each other like wild beasts. It felt like we rolled twelve times and still didn’t hit the edge of the bed. This guy was good. He had some crazy South African Tantric Shaka-zulu methods, and was puttin’ fingers and tongue in places that I didn’t know I had and that I didn’t know would feel so fucking awesome.<br /><br />He suddenly springs up out of bed, and I prepare myself for the main presentation. I sit up anxiously awaiting the arrival of my soon to be new best friend. He drops his pants and I almost pass out. Those random white dots start to trickle in from the corner of my eyes – I’m seeing fucking stars. I hear angels singing. There<em> it</em> was in the flesh before my disbelieving eyes – the infamous baby’s arm holding an apple! It was glorious. I thought maybe he went to the kitchen when I blinked and grabbed a foot long sub for us to share. Like a magnet to steel, I gravitate to the magical flesh sword. I stand in awe, jaw agape. I think I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. I touched it like I was a little girl petting a pretty doggie for the first time. Poked it, is this real? Holy shit, this is <em>real</em>. I don’t even know where to start. For the first time EVER I doubt the abilities of my Whirlpool technique. In fact, I almost blacked out trying to deep throat and slightly ripped the corners of my mouth. There is something so fucking dirty hot about that I didn’t even care, I blew that shit like a meat whistle. Then it dawns on me, I look down at my little lady, who I realize will no longer be little after this. Fuck it. I was 21; I decide to take my chances. This bull, I needed to ride. I instantly start doing my Kegels, hoping to save the walls of my much needed tight vagina. This is the only one I get after all and one day I’ll be turning her back in used up, banged up, tore up and fucked up… but not anytime soon.<br /><br />Cue the porn music, South Africa’s got me hanging from the fucking chandelier. At one point, he sticks his fingers in <em>with</em> the elephant tusk <em>and </em>in my ass – I start weighing the options of reconstructive surgery. Certain positions I can feel him poke my liver, he of course knows how to breathe and gyrate so the organ crushing stops and we can continue bangin’ it out. Men with big penises have quite the job ahead of them. I now knew why South Africa was so fucking swollen; he had to suspend himself in some of the most awkward fucking positions ever to avoid actually blasting me open. He was making Pilates look like a cake walk. At certain points, I couldn’t tell if I was in pain or complete ecstasy and the craziest part is that it was all fucking working for me. I was the wettest I’ve ever been, broken fire hydrant style. He had something going on at every fucking orifice of my body; playing me like a fucking tuba and I didn’t want it to end. Thanks to the alcohol or the sheer mass of his Donkey Dick it didn’t right away. When it finally did, I looked like I was dropped from a building, during a hurricane and hit every fucking awning on the way down. I slept happily ever after dreaming of dancing, singing schlongs raining down upon me.<br /><br />The dream was the last good thing to come out of this. I woke in horror. As my eyes fought to adjust, I instantly could feel that something wasn’t quite right. My vision sharpens and I see a blood streak on my arm. What the --? I sit up in bed, the morning light barely peeking through the curtains, which are probably custom-made from the finest silkworms China has to offer. As my eyes continue to focus, I can now see that the room looks like a fucking murder scene. HOLY SHIT. I’m not on my fucking period. Not even close. My heart rate increases. The bed looks like someone came in and splash painted the fucking thing. It’s on the walls, the lamp, the rug, a little on the ceiling – were we flying at one point? This motherfucker really did bust open my liver, which no doubt was already highly weakened by my alcoholic tendencies. He cracked me open like a God forsaken egg, and what I thought was the approval of pussy juice was the assassination of my hymen, who I thought had been dead for years. This is not good, I wasn’t in danger before but I sure as shit was now. I mean Richie Rich spent twenty minutes alone on the delicate fabric of the pillow shams, which are now soiled with my vajayjay blood – sweet. Speaking of which…<br /><br />My eyes go WIDE. I slowly peel the covers back, look down, check the oil and bring my hand back up to find it bloody. Like the kid in Stand By Me with the leech, I feel like I may lose consciousness. At the speed of a sloth I slowly rise out of bed and practically walk on my toenails to the bathroom, where I immediately turn into a contortionist and flip my leg over my head to assess this very severe situation. I can practically see out my mouth and everything still seems intact and in working order. I clean her up, she looks like she went 12 rounds with Rocky. She’s a little swollen, but the bleeding seems to have subsided so I’m pretty sure she’ll live to ride another cock. My liver on the other hand may be internally bleeding. I’ll need to deal with that later.<br /><br />I exit the bathroom and look over at South Africa who was dropped from the same building and is breathing heavily still lost in the euphoria of REM sleep. He moves, I freeze and silently beg God to not let him wake up, and not just because I’m standing in the middle of the room butt ass naked watching him sleep. I need to figure this shit out. I consider waking him, it’s the right thing to do, and after all, he should be used to this shit, having a monster dick and all. That is until, he puts his arm over his face and I now see his hands are covered in blood. FUCK! Most guys I know aren’t all that stoked to be covered in some chicks vag blood. How both of us neglected to notice the God damn cunt massacre that took place here is a fucking mystery to me to this day. Panic starts to set in, I want to do the right thing, but I don’t want to die. I picture myself shackled in Richie Rich’s basement, threading new sheets on a spindle like Sleeping Beauty and shit. I decided Richie Rich was rich enough to replace the blanket, and pillows, and lamp, and, well, to redecorate the whole room.<br /><br />All I need to do now is get the hell out of dodge without making a single peep, should be really fun in a house covered with hardwood floors. Luckily, the "three am slip out" is one of my specialties. I glide through the room like there are invisible laser beams waiting to detonate and seal off the room. South Africa moves a few times and I stop breathing altogether. I manage my shirt and underwear back on, and decide the pants and shoes can wait until I’m outside and about to break out this bitch. I make it into the hallway, yes! Richie Rich’s bedroom is between me and the front door, no! I then notice to the left of me is a door that leads out to the backyard. I take it.<br /><br />A small path takes me along the side of the house to a walkway that has a gate at the end of it – my ultimate escape. I make my way as quickly and silently as possibly down this walkway where I pass a window that is, of course, Richie Rich’s bedroom. I peek in one-eyeball style, see him stir in bed and try not to shit my pants on the spot. The only thing worse than getting caught is getting caught trying to sneak out and take no responsibility for your actions… in your fuschia g-string. I wait under the window for what felt like thirteen days to make sure he wasn’t getting up or making anymore noise. All I needed was Richie Rich to stretch and gaze out his window to find me army crawling through his garden trying to get the fuck out of there. I make it to the gate, which hasn’t been used in ten years. The latch is covered and locked with a chain, fucking rad! I’m now way too scared to go back in through the house and get caught coming in from the backyard clenching my clothes. This is it. This has to happen. I throw my clothes over, back up a bit, get the tiniest running start on the gate and practically smash myself against it like a squished bug. Adrenaline pulls my half-naked, ass-up body over the gate and I land brown eye first in the wet dirt. Fucking nasty. I hope his neighbors were up for an early breakfast because they just got one hell of a show. Anyway, I’m on his porch in my underwear, begging that I don’t get discovered one second before I escape to freedom or in this manner, since I now look like I’ve shit myself. I dress Superman-style and start sprinting to the end of the block like Forrest Gump. I stop when I realize I’m in a foreign country, have no idea where I am, and need to catch a plane back to the states in three hours.<br /><br />Like a bad movie and I mean <em>bad</em> movie, I check my phone and realize it’s about to run out of batteries. This was '01 when they beeped once and died on the second beep. Luckily, I was smart enough to get a cab number from my friend for this precise Walk of Shame moment. I dial and cross everything on my body I can. The guy answers and I immediately start shouting the surrounding street corners at him. He asks me to calm down and that’s when the phone dies – SHITTY! I look down all four streets around me, if you could pan up like a movie, I’m pretty sure you’d be able to see that the stretches of suburban houses went on for an infinity, like Death Valley. I do the only thing I can and start walking through the Brisbane streets at 6:30am in my four-inch heels looking like I just walked out of the eye of a hurricane. I come to a few random little stores tucked in between the houses, which don’t open until 8am or 9am, so I carry on, with mud in my ass and determination in my heart. After another half hour, and my near nervous breakdown of being lost in the streets of Brisbane as my plane flies overhead and leaves me, I see what looks like a cab at the very end of the street. I start hobbling toward the car in my stilts. I’m sure to the cabbie I looked like Quasimodo limping down the street, which can only explain his horrified expression as I throw myself in front of his cab. He locks the doors, as I’m trying to explain that I need him to call another cab to come and get me. I then notice the passenger in the backseat who is H-O-T! Of course, of course he is. He rolls down his window and asks if I’m okay, it’s painfully obvious what I’m doing in my heels on a random street at 7 in the morning so I go with it.<br /><br />“I’m fine, I just rolled over and saw what I went home with last night and need to flush the image out of my eyes before it permanently sets.” He laughs. “Been there, I see.” I look at the cabbie who’s not amused and keeps revving the engine. I explain to Australian cab hottie (ACH), that my phone died before I could call my own cab and I need to get to the airport –<br /><br />“That’s where I’m going...” He scans my Walk of Shame outfit. “... but I guess you aren’t exactly packed yet. Where are you headed?” This just keeps getting better and better, because I have no fucking clue. “Um, I have no fucking clue… see I’m on vacation and I don’t normally (lies all lies) do this kind of – “<br /><br />He stops me with a Who are you kidding? look. He’s right, who am I kidding? The mud in my ass starts to itch and it’s all I can do to stop myself from doing the potty dance to scratch it. “Well I can’t just leave a girl in your condition (Condition? Drunk Walk of Shame whore condition?) out here in the street. I grew up here so I know the area very well, you can use my phone to call your friend and I’ll drop you off. “<br /><br />I want to offer to kiss him, but since it looks like I kissed every Australian in the country last night I’m sure he’d pass, so I settle with a “ThankyouIloveyou” and jump in next to him reeking of booze and sex and mud and God knows what at this point. Cabbie takes off like he’s piloting a space shuttle. I think all the Australian cab drivers are retired Nascar stars because they drive at ludicrous speed and only use the brakes once you’ve arrived at your destination all the while blaring AC/DC. I didn’t mind because I got to keep sliding toward ACH, I can’t say the same for him. To top things off, ACH turns out to be the man of my dreams, except he’s going to visit his girlfriend in the states (which upon hearing I think to myself, yes! I have a chance, if only I were a home wrecker). In this lifetime he’ll have to simply be my ACH, my hero, my savior, and some of the best and longest-standing masturbation material I have to date. I mean he got out and opened my door when we got to my friend’s house and wouldn’t take a dime for the cab. I did one of those romantic comedy moves where I stood in the middle of the street and watched his cab disappear around the corner, hoping he’d stop and run back down the street into my waiting arms. Instead a car honks and I get out of the middle of the road.<br /><br />You bet your sweet ass when I boarded my plane I scanned every last seat for a sign of ACH, this has to be destiny… or maybe I’m still drunk. I instead find my seat, which is at the end of a cramped exit aisle, and next to a 101 year-old couple who are unable to stand to let me in. Before we even take off the stewardess takes food orders and Grandma and Grandpa order a big ‘ol omelet, of which every other bite actually makes it into their mouth. Eggs and mothballs are one of nature's secret little scents that you don't often get the chance to partake in. I, of course, got the pleasure after a night of drinking and fucking. It should be illegal to serve eggs on a plane or any cramped space where there is no free running oxygen. My stomach instantly turns, and it takes me twenty minutes to crawl out of my space to get to the bathroom. I accept the egg/plane torture as my punishment for destroying Richie Rich’s guest bedroom and try, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep and dream of the baby’s arm for the next fourteen hours.<br /><br />So you may be wondering, after a vagina massacre, narrowly escaping death at Richie’s house, a grueling trek through Australian Suburbia wasteland, a psycho cab ride, and the sickest I’ve ever been on a non-stop fourteen hour plane ride in my entire stinkin’ life, would I do it again? Hells –motherfuckin’ – yes! Cheers to big dicks.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Kegels, girls, kegels – learn it, live it, love it.<br /><br />XoXo<br />Easy Lover<br /><br />P.S. A Medical Note: Upon taxiing the runway at LAX I speed dial my gyno and tell her I sprung a leak. This was her diagnosis: "He basically poked your cervix causing internal bleeding, next time you come across such a large penis you need to communicate (like when he hit my liver aka cervix I should have said "slower" or "gentle"). While sex with a large penis is not impossible it requires responsibility and it's my responsibility to make sure I am lubricated and comfortable" (I picture myself being rammed up against the wall and one of the hanging pictures dropping as I scream "Harder, harder."). I just nod my head, "Oh yeah, that's totally what I did."<br /><br />Moral #2: Don't let a big dick poke your cervix... even though that kinda seems like the point.Easy Loverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13159957897306401708noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-78569388265383819232008-11-25T19:20:00.000-08:002008-12-01T22:35:50.837-08:00The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (If I dated him that long, he probably would've)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBYcJ9q4GbIR19XMYYe9iwszOeqqXdfnPlO2Htk5o5CHSZE_F1DOcOQ7tdrx5X9w_f_BmPwUx3gojQs3dEJS1BnE_iTl4BBxnB1DdEY3GxjnTr8r0MHKfDPMyIwaGKmqyBtFdWNZBxCA/s1600-h/grinch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 173px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBYcJ9q4GbIR19XMYYe9iwszOeqqXdfnPlO2Htk5o5CHSZE_F1DOcOQ7tdrx5X9w_f_BmPwUx3gojQs3dEJS1BnE_iTl4BBxnB1DdEY3GxjnTr8r0MHKfDPMyIwaGKmqyBtFdWNZBxCA/s200/grinch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272801525978295170" border="0" /></a>Okay here it goes...<div><div>I was dating this man for a few months. He was in commercial real estate, smart, kinda handsome, tall, and witty. I would have to say I saw signs of "grinchness" on our third date, but I decided to give it a chance, since his bitterness was never directed towards me. But jeeez this man really needed to watch "The Secret!" Too bad it wasn't out then or I would have bought him 5 copies...anyways.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward to the 4th month and quite a few grinch moves later, the turning point was as follows:</div><div><br /></div><div>We decided to meet for breakfast on his side of town. Now the previous day, I had let my friend who was a stylist try out color on my bangs, and a few other random streaks throughout my hair. I didn't like the color, and he said he'd change it the following week when he was free. He didn't charge me for the services, so I figured I could wait a week. Ok, now keeping that in mind, let me continue.</div><div>I met Grincheepoophead at his place, since we decided to walk to a restaurant near his house. As I waited patiently for him, to come downstairs, I worried a little about my hair. He was conservative but hell, I was only going to have these FIRE ENGINE red streaks in my hair for a week right?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">WRONG!!!!!! </span></div><div><br /></div><div>My goodness, I knew it was bad, but the man I'd been dating for almost 4 months could not even look at me. Well, he did, but nodded his head in disappointment everytime. This fucker had the nerve to tell me people wouldn't take me seriously. Excuse me, but I didn't think I'd be trying a murder case within the next couple of days! Hello! I said that my friend was just having fun. I told him I didn't like it and he would change it next week. You'd think no big deal right? NOT! Geez OK OK it didn't look great, but fuck get over it! He made it seem as if I said I loved it and was going to keep it like this forever and a day, but shit what IF I did like it?</div><div><br /></div><div>So 10 minutes later of mumbles, grumbles and a lecture about hair color, we finally made it to the restaurant. As we sit down and start to have a normal conversation, he looks over my shoulder. His face was so broken I thought he saw someone regurgitate their food at the table behind me. Great, now what? I say to myself. I turn and see a man, a woman and a baby in the stroller next to the table. Hmmmm. What could have possibly put an even more GROUCHIER facial expression on Grincheepoophead?</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned to him and asked "am I missing something here?" He said "Look...just look at her. How could a woman let herself go like that? I don't care if you had a baby...lose the weight." WTH? Wait....WHAT THE HELL? I turn to look at the family and zero'd in on the baby, yes the BABY in the stroller, not a 5 year old kid. And even if their child was 5, why is it his concern and why would it bring him down? We don't even know these people for goodness sake. Focus on my hair again...asswipe! Seriously, the baby looked about 3 MONTHS OLD! He then talks about how Madonna and Julia Roberts lost their weight quickly. Uh yeah, need I say more?</div><div><br /></div><div>After that incident I have to admit, I punished myself for a few more weeks. At this point, I wished I knew "The Secret" but I didn't. You live and you learn.</div><div><br /></div><div>The moral to THIS story: Never date anyone who doesn't love themselves, but if they're HOT, teach them the Law of Attraction.</div><div><br /></div><div>XOXO</div><div>That Girl</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:24;"><br /></span></div></div>That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-10317769336152868832008-11-20T10:33:00.000-08:002008-11-20T20:26:16.546-08:00Opportunity in the Land of the Lost<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.freewebs.com/jurassicpark101/small%20raptor%20pic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 235px;" src="http://www.freewebs.com/jurassicpark101/small%20raptor%20pic.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>I've never been one to have a particular type of guy. I'm notorious for being all across the board. I have an order of 'preference' but rarely stick to it or even make it a determining factor in my dating life…so I guess I'm more of an opportunistic dater. If you're cute and the opportunity comes up for us to get together, I'm taking it.<br /><br />Such was the case of Mr. Raptor. This guy hit me up online and we basically just traded emails. Since I was seeing someone at the time we never made plans to meet. He was very sweet, charming, funny and good looking. None the less, I was faithful to my man at the time and just kept it very cordial. Then, we spotted each other at a club one night and finally said hi face to face. Always the gentleman, he kept his respective distance so not to look too flirty. The bf didn't suspect anything but, there was nothing to suspect anyways.<br /><br />Flash forward a year when the bf turned into the ex bf.<br /><br />I ran into Mr. Raptor again at the same club. I informed him that I was free of all ties and surprisingly so was he. This guy was very handsome, had a killer smile, sweet charm, and great build. It was an obvious opportunity for me to step up and see what would happen between us so we planned on a dinner and drinks date a week later.<br />I showed up to his house a little bit nervous but all that washed away when he opened the door. God, he was just soo handsome! Had a great apartment and I learned he was a real estate developer, had sold his house to start his own business, and was working on a deal in Dallas and San Diego…$$$$$$!!!!!!! (I'm just saying)<br />We never actually made it to dinner; instead we got liquored up on his couch and engaged in some heavy back seat make out sessions.<br /><br />We inevitably made our way to the bedroom and released a year of pent up emails and innuendos. Leaving out obvious details we laid next to each other, hot and sweaty. Still with his charming smile and even after sex, this guy was O SO HANDSOME! We showered together and he made us both a night cap. As I was about to get ready to go home, he grabs my hand and says I can stay the night. Turning to look at him in his bed, the blanket barley covering anything and revealing his perfect chest and abs…..who was I to say no!? This was a perfect opportunity for some all night cuddle sessions!(I am a hopeless romantic) So I climbed in bed with him, he cuddled with me till I fell asleep.<br /><br />I wake up in the middle of the night to him kissing the back of my neck and obviously wanting more. So we do it again. This time, I cuddle him till he falls asleep. His chest is amazing!<br /><br />And then comes the dawn, the time of day when the darkness gives way to the light and allows the flowers to bloom and the birds to sing. Outside dew drops are dripping, and the sun is warming the ground, releasing the sweet smell of morning. Inside I stir before Mr. Raptor and marvel at the fact that I'm still holding onto him. It was a perfect night and he is a perfect sleeper. I didn't hear him snore once and his body is so proportionate with mine that I didn't even break my hold on him once. I moved my hand over the V of his pelvic area, up along his abs to his chest and across to his shoulders, admiring the fine lines of his sculpted body. Feeling the way he felt at 3 in the morning, I went to kiss him good morning and noticed other fine lines on his face. His lips seemed to stretch down to his ears and, being in the vicinity of his ears, notices that the corner of his eyes seemed to be making their way down as well. HOW OLD WAS THIS GUY!?!!!! In all of our emails and in all the conversation that went on last night the subject of age never came up. He looked like he'd be in his mid 30's but his face looked much much older when he slept. Just then, as I was becoming more aware of the Jekyll and Hyde lying next to me, he began to yawn. His skinny lips opening slowing, pulling on the lines so that for one brief optical illusion it looked as if he had an elongated mouth. Sort of like a…raptor. Then I noticed his nose, kind of long and pointy like an eagle's nose and it hit me. His lips weren't the only things that were 'raptor' like. It was his whole face. The nose, the eyes, and the lips! Waking up next to this man every morning would be like waking up in Jurassic Park (enter theme song)!!!!!<br /><br />Outside, the birds were chirping and the day was beginning a new. Dogs were being walked, kids rushed to school, offices stirring with phone calls and emails. Inside, I was waiting for my next opportunity. Suddenly it came; he woke fully, and got up to go to the bathroom. Now! I got up, clothed myself and sprinted for the door, just like in the movie! Feeling the burning of the dinosaurs eyes on the back of my head, I picked up the pace of my walk of shame…smiling that I had narrowly escaped being ripped apart by Mr. Raptor.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: When opportunity knocks a dinosaur may rear its ugly head.<div><br /></div><div>XOXO</div><div>BadInfluence4yourAZZ</div>TheOnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734954169429535599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-46011920184452968322008-11-14T11:43:00.000-08:002008-12-12T13:17:03.861-08:00THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN WATER THAT JUST WON’T GROW<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9jD19JPUGHzbam8xP1JfwcOQh0qICAYlSJamZAY8Fwz0RT6Bmd-RnH8QcysB9kAtrLRXCU4szl6MCJFsrzuy5MRTRr2on7kNpC0V5-mJvtCImZ3UmMVEH6FVFB-1CEGXm50Lvs8bc1Q/s1600-h/angryinch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268601372538417730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 175px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz9jD19JPUGHzbam8xP1JfwcOQh0qICAYlSJamZAY8Fwz0RT6Bmd-RnH8QcysB9kAtrLRXCU4szl6MCJFsrzuy5MRTRr2on7kNpC0V5-mJvtCImZ3UmMVEH6FVFB-1CEGXm50Lvs8bc1Q/s200/angryinch.jpg" border="0" /></a> Now as we all know there are many obstacles and grievances in the dating world: bad breath, examine-my-tonsils kissing, non-stop chattering, the Hyena laugh, obsessive cat lovers, non-cat lovers (for the cat lovers), 20 minute food orders (I want this, but not that, and I’m allergic to that, etc.), sewer pussy for guys, the Miata driver for girls, thigh pubes, in-laws, Teva-wearers of either sex (this is strictly L.A.), the “I’ll call you” guy who you never hear from, the too soon “I love you” girl, yellow teeth, fart jokesters – wow, I was only gonna name a few, so I’m pretty sure you catch my drift at this point.<br /><br />The one thing that list has in common, however, is that most of the things I described can be fixed or worked on for the most part. There are, though, two dating woes that no matter how badly you want them to not be true, or how badly you pretend they aren’t that bad, they are simply fucking HORRIBLE and, without a question, deal-breakers. Drumroll please… okay, that’s good.<br /><br />For the men it’s the Hotdog-Down-a-Hallway/Toothpick-in-a-Trashcan vagina, where no matter how many angles you try to take you just can’t hit a wall. And for the ladies, and what has scarred me on not one, but TWO occasions is, The Angry Inch aka Needle dick, Pencil dick, The Hitchhiker, Inch Worm, Baby Carrot, Bug-fucker, Millikan, Rooster-challenged, Baby Beef or just plain ‘ol Small Dick to name a few.<br /><br />This is the story of #22 – The Angry Inch, which to date is one of my saddest victories.<br /><br />After #21 broke things off with me, I was pretty bummed. #21 was someone I really liked, so I did what anyone would do, I went out and got shit-canned. Anyone who’s ever had a break-up knows that the break-up stink sends off some of the most powerful pheromones ever in the history of pheromones, so I knew I couldn’t lose. Those, of course, are my famous last words.<br /><br />The Angry Inch had perfect teeth and an awesome smile. It was the only thing I could see perfectly through my Vodka goggles. And although he was shy, I could tell he was super sweet. His wingman was on point, buying shots, buying the entire bouquet of roses, from the lady who cruises the bars looking for drunks to buy her flowers, for him to give me (which they think I didn’t see), and flirtin’ up the other girls to slowly distract them away from us. My friends knew I was hurtin’ and despite my giving the signal that this wasn’t going to be the one, they promptly ditched us while I was in the bathroom. Rad. My wingbitches were fired on the spot.<br /><br />His wingman left his electric bikes for the two of us to ride off into the night together, which we rode at 30mph’s - me with one eye open full blown BUIing - back to his house a block off the beach… are you sensing the pattern here with the wingman? Either he suffers from the same condition or just knows his buddy needs all the help he can get.<br /><br />I’m barely through the front door when The Angry Inch mauls me like a bear. At this point, I could have been making out with a homeless man or maybe it really was a bear. I pretty much remember being mounted and dismounted, but everything in between is a toss up. However, I did wake up with that aching feeling that something was missing… you know, like a big rock solid veiny man cock.<br /><br />Sidebar: This is not the first time I’ve tangoed with The Angry Inch. The first time was in college, it was #4. #4 was another drunken encounter – I’m learning a lot about myself here – and the experience was much like what I imagine rabbit sex must be like. I didn’t even feel it go in, but he started gyrating as if he were having an involuntary seizure, and then he was done before I could even get my pants off all the way. When he got up to get dressed is when I first saw it, in the moonlight, The Angry Inch, the little guy fighting so hard to be more than he’s ever capable of being. It looked like he was giving me a thumb’s up. I prayed it was the booze and that we’d never meet again, but I guess that’s why going to church is so important.<br /><br />So that’s why when I woke, I knew he’d found me again. The Angry Inch used wingman’s Corvette to take me home, we exchanged numbers and I promptly went inside and scrubbed myself rape-style in the shower. At first The Angry Inch, tried to booty-call text me, to which I laughed and laughed at, the first rule in booty calling is that no one with inadequate size can participate in it. I, undoubtedly, cricketed his ass.<br /><br />We ended up seeing each other out again. He turned up the charm, didn’t ride wingman’s coattails, and actually seemed like a pretty cool guy. I wasn’t ten Vodkas deep this time, so that helped, too. I agreed to go out with him and prayed to the penis Gods that this one wasn’t indeed compromised as I originally suspected. I was more nervous than with #1. I closed my eyes… pulled down the zipper… peeked… FUCK! There he was, The Angry Inch, smiling a tiny smile back at me. The experience wasn’t quite as horrible as with #4, but it wasn’t great either. I liked the guy though, so I decided to try out a smaller fit. He could eat the shit out of a pussy (often a sign of The Angry Inch host), so maybe this was doable. That was until Doggie Style was omitted from the position list because The Angry Inch had trouble reaching, and when he got squeamish about blow jobs I knew our three month tryst would soon be ending. Giving head is like breathing air for me so this was a red flag to say the least. Finally, after a date to the Zoo I knew my true calling. There must have been something in the water because every habitat we visited had a male specimen sportin’ his massive animal junk. Everywhere I turned I had balls swinging in my face. I’m drooling over Zebra cock, this is not good. I picture myself moonlighting on the weekends as one of the women in the Mexican Donkey shows, this is REALLY not good.<br /><br />I politely had to end things with The Angry Inch, of course omitting the real reason. We hooked up a couple times after that, but my love of big throbbing man penis got the best of me and I had to turn him loose. I still really liked the guy, he was a keeper in nearly every sense, but bitch got needs and unfortunately they require more than good conversation and a killer smile. It was a moral dilemma that ended selfishly for me and although I still sometimes think about The Angry Inch I don’t miss his angry inch one bit.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Test the water before you dive in, you may decide you’re not in the mood for a dip after all.<br /><br />XOXO<br />Easy LoverThat Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-69695651156883657702008-11-12T10:59:00.000-08:002008-11-12T11:05:14.160-08:00Men in Power...Hot? Maybe Not...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4vl2RvOuE9g3zdA6NV6koCy3-6l6WmYTL84SQoSmzAv6AN2GUxI-Rok6yxejCxW2XYPjxyWWUZ7M_aL6vGzbYGVDmtPgBWh0pK2l2x6vil2jphenPyExGGJ7iKdgC3P2mEX4B5QxKQk/s1600-h/workplace.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267848143690878434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 148px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4vl2RvOuE9g3zdA6NV6koCy3-6l6WmYTL84SQoSmzAv6AN2GUxI-Rok6yxejCxW2XYPjxyWWUZ7M_aL6vGzbYGVDmtPgBWh0pK2l2x6vil2jphenPyExGGJ7iKdgC3P2mEX4B5QxKQk/s200/workplace.jpg" border="0" /></a> My whole life I have had a thing for powerful men. My first crush was my gym teacher, Mr. Ozzie Wright. Men in power just always did it for me, so it was no surprise to most when I decided to date my boss.<br /><br />The first time I went in was for the interview, our eyes locked and we both felt the vibe. His name was Derek Taylor. Derek had blonde hair, blue eyes and the most sexy, pouty, lips that made your mouth water. I don’t remember everything that was said in the interview, but I do remember calling a friend afterward and telling them, “If I get hired… I will be fucking my boss!” My friend didn’t think it was a good idea, but I assured her it would be fine. I figured, if we were both adults, what’s the worst that could happen?<br /><br />Well, a few days went by and I received the good news that I was hired. YAY! My first day was torture. The attraction was sooo strong. I didn’t want to make the first move. So I did subtle things like brush pass him…VERY close, and then one day he asked to meet me for a drink. That first night we only got to know one another. I have to admit, I really didn’t pay much attention to what he said because I couldn’t take my eyes off those lips. We went out a few more times after that, and still nothing happened.<br /><br />One day at work, Derek called me into his office and started yelling at me about not doing my job correctly. I start crying. I couldn’t believe he was yelling at me. He got up and closed the door behind us, then sat behind his desk. He began to rub on his genitals and then told me to come over. I slowly walked over to his desk and he handed me a tissue. He told me to bend over the desk and take my panties off. I wiped my tears away and did as he said. I was excited. We had sex right there on his desk. It was just like I pictured. It was everything I hoped it would be. He was so great, and I was so satisfied.<br /><br />Later that night, when he and I were alone, I asked him about the yelling. He replied, “I have to be hard on you so no one will know you are my girlfriend.” Wow, we were together! I was happy but yet confused.<br /><br />Derek and I were going strong through the holidays. We ended up taking the weekend off together to go meet his folks. That was great! They loved me, and I adored them. Nothing could go wrong.<br /><br />Well, on the first of the year, the company sends a consultant named Maria to help the company be more productive in sales. She was kind of frumpy and had a really huge nose. Derek took a liking to her for some reason. He soon stopped hanging out with me, and eventually stopped calling me all together. I was so confused, but he refused to talk to me. I would see Maria and Derek in the hallways, laughing and flirting like I never existed. How could he! Soon enough, he began yelling at me in front of the staff and treating me like shit. I was purely humiliated. When I tried to confront him about it, he would just brush it off. Not long after, my work would come up missing. Things I knew I had worked on disappeared. My work was suffering. Derek decided that he should demote me. He took me to Human Resources, along with Maria, and told them all lies. These two had been setting me up. Human Resources took their word and I was demoted. I was ashamed and humiliated. Everyone knew by now that Derek and I were an item at one point. I was pretty much the laughing stock of the company. On that note, I quickly found a new job and left the company. Before I did, however, I sent a resignation letter to the owner on how Derek and I dated and how I was going to sue the company. I really wasn’t, but they fired Derek and that was good enough for me.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: Never shit where you eat!<br /><br />XOXO<br />UtopiaThat Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-42194243929474777652008-11-10T13:45:00.001-08:002008-11-10T14:02:58.950-08:00Academy Award for biggest cock blocker goes to....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7InWM-IWMLw1tbJ1VlSerhIxdPF7gOuyAWoV-aGAZuecKZyVJrjdGWyyJmQEJ4dx7j72tbK1uVQNOJNs3TuuoEkrsJmIPnnOYGJuigeksy5OK8qY6Cm_spgk4rPyYYV5t4OGVoCLHPM/s1600-h/cockblock.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267150698425282402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 149px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7InWM-IWMLw1tbJ1VlSerhIxdPF7gOuyAWoV-aGAZuecKZyVJrjdGWyyJmQEJ4dx7j72tbK1uVQNOJNs3TuuoEkrsJmIPnnOYGJuigeksy5OK8qY6Cm_spgk4rPyYYV5t4OGVoCLHPM/s200/cockblock.jpg" border="0" /></a>So i'm partying in Barcelona and i meet these 2 irish chicks, now they're both hot but one is giving me a little more attention than the other, she's a redhead, we'll call her Freckles, the other is a Blonde. We'll call her Blondie.<br /><br />Ok so Freckles is about 5'4, totally Irished out, w/ the works, freckles, firecrotch, and a quick lip, her homechick is about 5'9, NIIIIIICE titties n' an ample ass, shes also got freckles and although shes not a talker she's definately in the mix.<br /><br />So anyway we're all hanging out, and the girls are buying me drinks YES THEY'RE GETTING ME DRUNK. So we proceed to the dance floor where Freckles isn't giving me any play, i vibe up to her and shes got no warmth, so BAM i turn to Blondie, and WOOAAAH hollly shit, there's the mojo! Blondie takes advantage and starts grinding away, getting DOWN so i'm like FUUUUUCK. Anyway we're all dancing and getting crazy, and i start whispering into Blondies ear "hey lets<br />get out of here" ... she loves it and starts grabbing my ass and kissing me, SHIIT so now i'm really getting turned on, i say "seriously c'mon lets bounce" Que the whimpery voice "I can't leave Freckles" WTF!! Freckles is handling her business and cruising around the spot having a good time, ok, well she can come too.. "It's cool, she can roll" i say "really?" She asks "you gotta boy for her?" FUCK!! where is my homie when i need him. My friend Hawk went back home to Sweden and so now i'm here without a wingman... "well there's ignacio" i say... lol Let me take a moment to give you some background on Ignacio...<br /><br />Ignacio is a softspoken Chilean dude, he's like 6'2, a little pudgy, has a beard like santa clause and you wouldn't expect it but is none the less a pimp, he gets mad play and i SWEAR TO GOD is everywhere at once... without fail, no matter where you are in Barcelona, you're likely to run into Ignacio, he is ALWAYS in the mix... Ignacio runs an illegal hostel, my semi-permanent residence in Barcelona. The owners of the building have the penthouse and the 2nd floor. Whenever their regular "legal" hostel fills up, they send the overflow to Ignacio, at which point he fills the 2nd<br />floor with tourists and never fills the penthouse because that's where he stays, unless you're a hot chick or paying him under the table like i was... So basically i had the pad to myself, Ignacio was always out and about cruising the town, and it was a big spot, several rooms, mad beds, rooftop patio, hooked up. Anyway.. back to the story.<br /><br />So these chicks are dragging me out of the spot, and we're headed to my spot (SO I THINK) anyway we get out front of my pad and i get the whole "ok, we're going home, goodnite"<br />WHAT THE FUCK?!?! Not the plan.. Blondie knew my intentions, seriously she was reaching down my pants on the dance floor! I mean what am i supposed to think?? Now she's playing dumb and letting her friend run the situation?? - weak "awwwe what, come up have a beer, chill out its got a dope view" "You got a guy for me?" Freckles is doubtful...<br /><br />"Yeh, IGNACIO!" LOL<br />"Ignacio???"<br />"He's a pimp, he's got a beard, you'll love him"<br />"nooo i dont think so"<br />WHAT THE HELL<br />"shit, alright well have a good nite"<br /><br />And i bounce, pretending like i'm going back to my pad - instead of going home i slip thru the back alley and startle a guy and a prostitute getting it on in the alley, OH SHIT lol! I look away so they can continue with their wholesome exchange - but then I am staring straight at another couple .. LOL!! i start busting up and keep walking.. So what the fuck!! It's still early, i left the spot to kickit with the girls at the pad, not to walk them to my place and get shuffled at the door! So i head back to the club, grab a few more drinks, have some fun, and eventually call it a nite. Next day I'm back out having a good time, and i run into the Irish girls again! They're way excited to see me and immediately buy me a drink, allright whats up! So que the dance floor, me and blondie are at it again, and she's practically raping me on the dance floor, i swear not once but three times she literally pulled johhny out of my pants and i had to pull her into a corner so other dancers wouldn't see wtf!!! "c'mon this is crazy lets go chill out at my spot" ..... "ok" she says, this time totally comitted.. NICE!<br /><br />Freckles is hooking up with this random Spanish guy so thats all good, she says she'll be alright but shes going to say goodbye, so i wait. Seconds later her and her friend and the random guy come over "We're all going" she says .... great i'm thinking, what the hell. So we're all cruising down Las Ramblas and we get to my spot, suddenly Freckles keeps walking "Where u going??" "Oh we're going to -OUR- hotel" she says ...(Blondie looks confused) and then she walks up to me, winks and says "don't worry i'll give you two the room, i got your back" NICE!!! "Where are you two gonna kickit?" I ask, motioning to her random companion.."Oh there's a balcony" she says whispering "Don't worry i'm not into him like that i dont need the room" ... nice shes dope, so we cruise to the spot.<br /><br />We get into the hotel and they lead me up to this banquet hall (part of the hotel) with a huge balcony... Freckles says "i'm going to the common kitchen they have some free beers in there want one??" "Sure" i say and she disappears... Suddenly me and blondie are at it having some privacy finally, she pulls me out to the balcony and we're making out, she reaches down, free's Johnny & starts going down on me and i'm like hell yeah... overlooking the city, suddenly i look behind me and the beers there, OH SHIT BUT WHERE'S FRECKLES?? Blondie sees the beer and is like "oh no u think she saw us?" lol "probably i say".. so she takes me back to the room, and now Freckles wont open up!! Meanwhile you have to realize, i've been teased for 2 nites, and i'm talking, --TEASED-- this girl has gotten me crazy, i can barely think straight, and now Freckles is playing games...<br /><br />WTF!<br /><br />She finally opens the door and is fully clothed... she giggles and closes it again and i'm like "alright they're getting it on, c'mon lets go somewhere else" and then the guy comes out, and Freckles is like "goodnite!" i'm looking at the guy and he looks at me as if to say "fuckin' tease" and i'm like shit i knew that from her... so she lets us in and then she wont leave! starts saying she is going to bed, so i take blondie out of there and into the hallway and we continue where we left off, shes driving me NUTS and then.. she says it:<br /><br />"Ok thats enough"<br /><br />"wha?" i mumble i'm not really listening...<br /><br />"I'm a good Catholic girl" ............................................................................................................................. .......................................................................................................................................................................!!<br /><br />what????????<br /><br />She's totally putting on breaks now and getting herself together... u serious?????????????????hollllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit what kind of good Catholic girl rapes a guy on the dance floor and then blows him on the patio.. but only enough to get him crazy... and then pumps the breaks, from zero to tease in 1.2 seconds... what are u trying to do to me woman?? seriously?? this is cool?<br /><br />WTF!!! So she pulls me into the room cuz Freckles unlocked it again, and then freckles goes off to the common kitchen again... not one to take no for an answer i lock the door and grab Blondie and take her to the bed, we start getting crazy again and then her friend starts knocking, we don't answer.. so now its on, things getting wild... and then she jumps up and unlocks the door... mid romp.... WTF??? her friend comes in and AGAIN i gotta pull myself together, i sit up, grab a pillow for a little decency and just look at the two of them in disbelief, they're milling around the room like it's tea time... now in a perfect world this is when the 3some would begin, but no, not the story, Freckles is hellbent on cockblocking and i've had enough, so i tell them thanks for the drinks, that they're cock teases, and i bounce.<br /><br />WHAT THE FUCK... anyway true story craziest cock teases ever. - The cock knocker and the cock blocker from Ireland.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: If you're sewn at the knees, don't act like you're down to please because there's nothing more dishonest than a tease!!!<br /><br />XOXO<br />Rooster, Guest Blogger<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267148442501304738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 144px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoXrWb64n6JQuSj51_0tXfKpz3_r5dfRJdj9YlJtN6Bd5_6tomZievAfVr83IIKlSePDLRIjZqGDFkl7Wf-LJY8viT7dPOJ4zVchHjyv3FHzcj6Zf_NdLG-fIbVp3MzLIuZQl7AZmEds/s200/rooster.jpg" border="0" />That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-86777878600997701842008-11-05T16:03:00.000-08:002008-12-12T13:16:36.991-08:00Get Out of My Dreams (AND ONTO MY CAR)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAR-RvVTCR0n28PNkmEL1C1N-CTcs6QU751M3Y4-IqdfQa8IHzARtqSYxPqc23sfUe6vnfHav1lc8UeE8rVeCL2CbEU3nDTdCBExzm8nuN8IQW-BWxwvMaJow70O6ejHrFlaBP5BPSg4/s1600-h/getintomycar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5265329505915704738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 106px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHAR-RvVTCR0n28PNkmEL1C1N-CTcs6QU751M3Y4-IqdfQa8IHzARtqSYxPqc23sfUe6vnfHav1lc8UeE8rVeCL2CbEU3nDTdCBExzm8nuN8IQW-BWxwvMaJow70O6ejHrFlaBP5BPSg4/s200/getintomycar.jpg" border="0" /></a>It may be a result of growing up in L.A., but somewhere around age six I figured out that the whole Happily-Ever-After/Ride-Off-Into-The-Sunset bit was a crapshoot. Complete and utter. It’s not just the fact that there is no royalty in L.A., or that people no longer gallop around on horses, but that after the “ride into the sunset” there are mortgages, kids, mid-life crisis’ and then the indefinite possibility of the Big D.<br /><div><br />So I decided to take a different approach to my dating life, and ride as many men into the sunset as I possibly can before I take that quintessential Fairy Tale ride with my Prince Charming. I realize this may tarnish my Fresh-as-a-Daisy Damsel image, but let’s face it most modern day Romeo’s have had their share of more than one Juliet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a chick, I still dream of a Happy Ending, I’m just gonna have multiple Happy Endings along the way to the ultimate one. I mean when I use to play Barbie I didn’t act out her wedding with Ken, I acted out the Honeymoon. Then I’d act it out with G.I. Joe, He-Man and sometimes even Optimus Prime, fuck it, why not?</div><div><br />This is the story of #24 in my campaign to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.” Yes, I just quoted Big & Rich, and yes, I’m sorry. #24 is The Mechanic, and to date one of my all-time favorites.<br /><br />I set my sights on Mechanic about a year and a half ago when some jackass backed into my ’66 Mustang. Mechanic rebuilds classic cars, so I was referred to his business. Seeing as Mechanics aren’t normally hot (unless they’re starring in Explosive Anal Penetration Part 7) I showed up fresh out of the gym and looking like complete Butt. He’s not the hottest, tallest or beefiest guy out there, but he oozed sex appeal more than the motor oil he was covered in. His blue/green eyes made me soil my underwear on the spot. He flirted, I flirted, and we… flirted. He may not have made my heart pitter-patter, but he certainly made another part of me pitter-patter.<br /><br />You better believe when I came back I looked like I just walked off a modeling shoot. I thought for sure my digits would be in his phone and a date would be in the bag by the time I started up my car to leave. Nope. Nada. He sent me on my way with nothing but a smokin’ hot “I want to fuck you” smile. Okay. Roger that. No date. This was not going to be “The One,” but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have some fun. Yes, I did rhythm that.<br /><br />CUT TO six months later, while borrowing my dad’s car I peel out of my garage going roughly 90 mph’s because I am once again inappropriately late for work. I rip the side mirror off. Call up Hot Mechanic. Boom. I’m standing next to him the very next day. Again, flirting, tension, lingering, and, drumroll please, a HUG but THAT’S IT! All I get. I thought I sent out the perfect mixture of I’m-into-you, but don’t-want-anything-serious vibes. From our first encounter, I had already eagle-eyed his ring finger, confirmed it was bare and had no tan line. Score. I chalked him up to being shy. I could learn to be a patient grasshopper.</div><div><br />Patient I was, when one year later, I’m finally back baby. I rammed my car up the asses of two others because I’m a lifelong Los Angeles commuter and had blacked out from severe road rage. This time, Mechanic wasn’t getting away. I could have given up, but what fun would that be?<br />He fixes my car, tells me to come pick it up at closing time. Time to close the deal is all I’m thinking about. This is a job for the black boot/mini skirt combo; I am coming from work after all. Of course, I ditch the hose and panties before I get there. I show up practically out of breath and ready to feed. He locks up the shop and then tells me he wants to show me a Camaro he’s rebuilding, which is locked up in one of the garage’s way in the back of the shop. As I’m admiring his custom paint job, slightly bent over, but not begging for it (at least not yet) he grabs me, spins me around, pulls my hair and starts wildly making out with me. Boo-ya! Finally, success. This shit is porn hot. In fact, I’ve seen a couple that start just like this. “No panties” gets ‘em every time. One condom later, (they’re not just for men’s wallets, ladies) he’s throwin’ me up against the car (relax, it’s his), then the wall, and garage. It’s dirty, nasty, sweaty and… fucking awesome! I’m in nothing but knee-high black boots, which at certain points are more like earrings. It’s 6:30pm on a Wednesday and I’m getting railed up against a beautiful car, by a beautiful man and all I can think is fuck the horse and fuck the sunset.<br /><br />The Moral of THIS story: While waiting for Mr. Right, might as well fuck the shit out of Mr. Right Now. Also, patience grasshopper… patience.<br /><br /></div><div>XOXO</div><div>Easy Lover</div>That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-1474136651541851492008-11-03T15:44:00.000-08:002008-11-20T20:41:23.869-08:00Will you be my Valentine...Wendy?<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-crc0S5ih5z7hYHvtla2PmGwUGpSFdpU6fF9VD49tP-dHIKFhPt_x02Agq9KDbYmXI4BiC0qaIKmmg3-9YetSAPdOBixOzuDwgb_mUxPEP_LnE6sasOoeZyM4CzkYAIAtPFiWutBKOk/s1600-h/wendys-wig.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264586988897217330" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 200px; height: 128px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-crc0S5ih5z7hYHvtla2PmGwUGpSFdpU6fF9VD49tP-dHIKFhPt_x02Agq9KDbYmXI4BiC0qaIKmmg3-9YetSAPdOBixOzuDwgb_mUxPEP_LnE6sasOoeZyM4CzkYAIAtPFiWutBKOk/s200/wendys-wig.jpg" border="0" /></a> First off, girls need to say what they mean. ALWAYS. Let me repeat that ONE more time. Girls, women, females (just so we're clear) need to say what they mean. Guys are literal and they will rarely ever stray from that in a casual sense and in this particular sense, taking your girlfriend out on a date eventually becomes casual. So, with that being said:<br /><br />On one particular Valentine's day, every single plan that I made for this special day fell through. So the night's events as they all fell over like dominos, became a joke by the end of the night. The perfect punchline to the joke is that we ended up eating at Wendy's. Honestly, it was a very charming dinner, lots of laughs. The worst Valentine' Day became the best Valentine's Day.<br /><br />Once I was done with my spicy chicken sandwich and her with her grilled chicken, she leaned over to me and said "we should do this every year." So, me being a GUY and a fan of Wendy's, the following year I took her to Wendy's out of nostalgia and by her request of the year prior. So you want to know how the date went?<br /><br />YOU GUESSED IT! She got PISSED and made me take her home.<br /><br />I thought I was in for an easy and inexpensive date, but it turned out that it was full of tears and a near break up. I was just doing what she said! I repeat, she leaned over to me and said "we should do this every year." Two words from her that night a year earlier could have saved her from a failed holiday, the following year, and those words "JUST KIDDING."<br /><br />If she would have said those words she would have earned herself a candle lit dinner and a meal that I would have no choice but to put on my credit card.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: SAY WHAT YOU MEAN<br /><br />XOXO<br />Uncle The Monster, Guest Blogger<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINZhiArurEFifAEqbMc_J97NeUagspfGBNsyyhY6tyx_62EAwSysk5svdR1khIOIjn2PO9hq8g7XSo8OJpK_9eKixnmfBvDrtJZVT6i8IVjZxSFOHQFaYmjDLOHGbjIggfQQVx5J-HUs/s1600-h/UncleMonster.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINZhiArurEFifAEqbMc_J97NeUagspfGBNsyyhY6tyx_62EAwSysk5svdR1khIOIjn2PO9hq8g7XSo8OJpK_9eKixnmfBvDrtJZVT6i8IVjZxSFOHQFaYmjDLOHGbjIggfQQVx5J-HUs/s200/UncleMonster.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270965552391847618" /></a>That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-39037659450300159952008-11-01T17:15:00.001-07:002008-11-05T09:53:09.502-08:00Laugh until I cry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_z3nj__TdzPY/SQ_q_uZGHvI/AAAAAAAAAAo/gEkiHus0cBE/s1600-h/Heyena.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264684869925347058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 178px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_z3nj__TdzPY/SQ_q_uZGHvI/AAAAAAAAAAo/gEkiHus0cBE/s200/Heyena.gif" border="0" /></a>When you think of the perfect guy, you almost always think of someone who makes you feel special. A guy who can walk into a room full of attractive people and still hold you on a pedestal. He's tall, dark and handsome, and in my case, Mr. Chuckles or "Chuck", also had an AMAZING body of muscles. His arms were the size of my head and they were very sexily decorated with tattoos. I met this guy online, where else do people in L.A meet each other?<br /><br />Our first date was at Chuck's house. We ordered pizza and watched episodes of Prison Break. The conversation was good, he was confident in his words, and as the night progressed, he pulled me to him and just held me all night. It felt like a fairy tale, I was wrapped up in the most amazing embrace. His heart beat was so soothing and his touch was like butter. We talked during the show, and learned about <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">each other's</span> likes and dis-likes. Basic first date conversation. It was awesome, so we scheduled another date.<br /><br />Second date was out for dinner. Food was good. I had a glass of wine and he had water.<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> </span>When we were done, we decided again, to watch Prison Break. I looked forward to more of those muscle covered arms. This time I stayed the night. We didn't have sex, but we did sleep naked. I marveled as he undressed and slipped under the covers with me. His body was straight out of a Men's Fitness magazine and as he got in the bed, in one fool swoop, he wrapped his arm around me and in an instant I was next to his bare chest. Warm, soft, and S E X Y!!!!!! Needless to say, I M E L T E D! I slept like a baby that night, and every night I spent there since.<br /><br />Our dates progressed well and after about a month we had done a lot of kissing, hugging, touching, humping and LAUGHING.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The thing about laughter. It comes in all shapes and sounds. Each one is unique, and each one is special in the ears of loved ones. </span><br /><br />Chuck had a very unique laugh. His laugh could be compared to Cyrano De Bergerac's nose. It...<strong>stood</strong> out. It protruded from his mouth like an oversized.....thing. I didn't really discover his full laugh until we went to the movies. I mean, we had joked around before and traded a few "chuckles" but I was never REALLY funny around him. He caught my jokes, but I guess didn't find them <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tooooo</span> funny. Well, needless to say, the movie really did him in. Or the previews I should say. We went to go see No Country for Old Men, so whatever previews would have been in that movie were what we saw. I think it may have been Forgetting Sarah Marshall or something. But, whatever....that's irrelevant.<br /><br />Chuck had a <strong>piercing</strong> laugh. Somewhere between a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hyena</span> and nails on chalk board. The INSTANT I heard it I sank into my seat. "How could this be!? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">OMG</span> NO! Now everyone is staring at us!" Every thought went through my head. All I could do was to PRAY TO THE GODS that this was the only comedy preview. "Please All Mighty Dating Gods....Dead babies, dead babies, dead babies!!!!!!!!!!!" But alas....the dating gods had a sense of humor. His laughter continued through the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">preview</span>, heads turned, my hat got lower, and I drank the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">entire</span> large soda to cover my face. Throughout the movie all I could only think of was how I would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">continue</span> seeing the amazing guy. If I could see past his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">horrendous</span> laugh and see the man that was behind it. I finally concluded that I was not so shallow. It was a laugh after all. I wasn't fucking his laugh, or kissing it, or being held by it. No, I was a much bigger person than that!<br /><br />Or so I thought.<br /><br />Flash forward to dinner, or to another movie night at his place, or to phone conversations! I don't know what it was, or how I never heard it before. But suddenly, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">hyenas</span> were <strong>EVERYWHERE!</strong> Haunting me. I would lay in bed at night, think of him and how wonderful I felt around him, and then I'd hear <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">AAAAAAaaaaaaaHHaaHHHhaaa</span>! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">wwwwwwwaaaAWSHHHH</span>!...and shit the bed.<br />After much soul searching, I realized this boys and girls:<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Laughter </span>comes in all shapes and sounds. Each one is unique, and each one is special in the ears of loved ones. </span><br /><br />But Mr.Chuckles laugh...was NOT special to me. I found myself NOT wanting to be funny to avoid the ear ache...and nightmares. And well...I can't live like that. Being forced to be unfunny so that I wouldn't hear the inevitable laughter. Shit, I'll find someone whose laugh makes me smile instead of cringe. And so...the search <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">continues</span>.<br /><br />But...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><strong>OMG</strong></span>,<br /><br />those<br /><br />MUSCLES!!!!<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: A laugh, although it may brighten your day, or make your soul shine...should sound like church bells on a breezy summer morning. Not like a fire truck at 4a.m.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">XOXO</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">BadInfluenz</span>4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">yourazz</span>!TheOnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12734954169429535599noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-34599689550125411612008-10-30T13:22:00.000-07:002008-11-14T12:53:29.121-08:00Static Cling<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDZE0ho8_qo2x38QRGuuyiiezvm6FD1Ju6BxUHf-KyoajFJa0UEskk8af-uqBDHx8ZWQfTEOq3RyDYuKAfmV7CDqTmpIHZts8oQh3BchXo9Pkqb4UaxLW-pxaF0M8BD5KCF2oua8pwCM/s1600-h/swingers_movie_vince_john.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263059435770145618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXDZE0ho8_qo2x38QRGuuyiiezvm6FD1Ju6BxUHf-KyoajFJa0UEskk8af-uqBDHx8ZWQfTEOq3RyDYuKAfmV7CDqTmpIHZts8oQh3BchXo9Pkqb4UaxLW-pxaF0M8BD5KCF2oua8pwCM/s200/swingers_movie_vince_john.gif" border="0" /></a> I'm going to call this boy BOUNCE because that's what I did after our first date.<br /><br />He was handsome, not my type, but sparked my curiousity nonetheless. I don't usually like the pretty boys but shit, why not, give it a try. And TRY I did. It started off slow and nice. Bounce was charming, witty, sweet...how could this be? I asked myself as the days slowly dragged before our first date. He's good looking. He owned property, had a dog, was attentive, listened to and remembered everything I said. SCORE!!!<br /><br />The date could be described as uh....hmmmmm...a downward spiral into a stack of hay, covering 4000 needles.<br /><br />I met him at his place since it was near the restaurant he said he'd take me to. Now people, never go to a strangers place without giving the address, name and number to 4 of your best friends, like I did. So moving on. He wanted to show me his place that he just remodeled along with his dog.<br /><br />DS#1 - That stands for downward spiral btw....So he gives me a warm bear hug, it was like we've known eachother for years! He shows me around his one bedroom condo and offers me a seat on his Pottery Barn sofa...We talk a bit, things are going well then he decides to put his arm around my shoulder...Peter Brady in the movie arm around shoulder style...I'm going with the flow, but suddenly the flow of his hand lands on my right boob and ends with a squeeze! :( I said it felt like we knew eachother for years, I didn't say we KNEW eachother for years.... WTF???<br /><br />As you can imagine I'm pissing in my pants right now. But in order to preserve my life... I suggest we go to the restaurant. Bounce at this point thinks he's my boyfriend? So he doesn't feel my vibe has completely changed...He's probably thinking I was just on my period or something.<br /><br />DS#2 - The restaurant. Saddle Ranch on Sunset. Need I say more?<br /><br />DS#3 - We are sitting accross from eachother. He is looking at me as if I was Angelina Jolie or Rachel McAdams...I mean I'm super cute (so my mom says) but not f'in HOT. A cute waiter comes to our table and asks if it's our first time at this restaurant. It's not, unfortunately....but Bounce proceeds to tell the waiter, "no, but it's our first date." The waiter, who was my "type" by the way, saw my pain and it seemed as if he wanted to rescue me, which would have been HOT, like in those old western movies, then we could ride into the fake sunset on that big fat mechanical bull...Uh, errr, wait losing track...Sorry, where was I? Oh yea, he told the waiter it was our first date, and added "and hopefully not our last." Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! Now, there's a reason WHY men love bitches....And why us women, love assholes. Jus' sayin'! At least on the first date that is. Well, not complete assholes, but you get my drift tho', and if you don't kiss my butt.<br /><br />DS#4 - In the middle of the dinner. He bought me a rose from one of those ladies who go around selling overpriced flowers they bought for a discounted price at the flowermart in downtown LA. Ok, first off, unless it's my birthday or valentines day, don't buy a rose. Please. In fact, unless you know I am in total LIKE or LOVE with you, don't but me a rose. After dinner, I suddenly felt sick, and said I had to wash my hair or wake up early. Something reeeeaally important. I forget.<br /><br />DS#5 - The next day he text me hello. At this point I was so over it but was thinking...Let me take a couple of days to sit on it. I mean I've never dated someone soooooo in to it on the first date and really suuuuper mushy before, I might as well try it on to see if it fits right? (I just threw up in my mouth, ugh sorry) Anyways...I text him back thank you for dinner and said my parents were coming up in the morning, because we had a funeral to go to that day. This is true. I would NOT lie about that. So he text ok, have a good rest of the day and asked that I call him when I was free. That day after work, he text asking to see me. I said I was actually on my way to my to my tattoo artist and probably wouldn't be able to see him until my parents left town, the next day. He said ok. A couple of hours later, he text, how is the tattoo going? (ya'll feel #5 here in full effect right?) I said, um it is going as it should be, leave me the fuck alone...well I left that last part out. An hour later he asked if he could see me after I was finished...BUT HE DON'T HEAR ME THO'!!! And I didn't answer him.<br /><br />DS#6 - The next day I received a good morning text. I responded accordingly. Lunch time comes around and he asks when will we see each other again. OK, at this point, I'm thinking... I'm at a funeral, well, no, I'm not thinking that, I actually AM AT A FUNERAL. Are you seriously asking me out right now? Really are you? For REAL??? I decided not to answer until my parents left town the next morning.<br /><br />Well people. If any of you watched the movie "Swingers" take notes on the character Mike played by John Favreau you will know where #6 is heading.<br /><br />He continues to text me throughout the day of the funeral. After 5 unanswered messages, he finally writes "Look if you aren't into this, just tell me now so we don't waste eachother's time." WTF????<br /><br />I decided to call him at this point and say... "I've been with family all day at a FUNERAL! Please do not text or call me ever again. BTW have you watched the movie Swingers? Well you're acting like Mike, please watch and learn." Yes, I did go there.<br /><br />The End.<br /><br />Oh and he text the next day and asked if we could "still" be friends. Were we ever?? I then threw up in my mouth.<br /><br />The moral of THIS story : Take things slow...NO boob grabbing on the first date!<br /><br />XOXO<br />That GirlThat Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-64001520186474483212008-10-29T15:43:00.000-07:002008-11-04T21:13:07.261-08:00My First Date With an Actor<span style="font-family:verdana;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263024961754628578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRTxdJQz9A3FnYP0N85wGXqqAKISFAQrD0q6RvNwndUhF7P4kuCKm6DIn9gRRM_GmuKxldIQv7Az3gO7Rk4dlE1USZ1OMeuKEf9reC3xwM0M_-gDv63awKDc0jzqjgBHk0v4zYJxXNv1E/s200/utopiaactordate.jpg" border="0" />People always ask me about the dating scene in LA. Moving here from New York you do notice a difference. Men in LA are privileged to have at their disposal the most beautiful women in the world. I know this because a guy told me this on our first date:<br /><br />His name was Bryan (real name withheld). Bryan was tall dark and handsome and had a smile that could melt your panties right off. Bryan was from Georgia. He moved here from his Hometown to pursue his music career, but ended up being more known for his budding acting career. We met at a restaurant opening: He pulled up and I immediately thought, I had to have him. I waited all night until he returned to pick up his car…. just so I could see him again. I saw his car pull around and then I hurried over and pushed the valet out of the way and opened his door. He said,“ I like that dress.” Bingo! The door was opened! After that, we exchanged friendly banter that ended up with me giving him my number. 1st date: We decided to meet at a restaurant in the Valley. I had NO idea this place was super casual. So I showed up wearing peep toe pumps, and a dress. He showed up wearing sweat pants and a tee shirt. I felt awkward… but yet sexy. As soon as we sat down he started grilling me like a George Forman Grill. Where are you from? How old are you? What was your last relationship like? I got soo tense. My last relationship sucked! Why was he asking me this sooo soon??? I decided to be honest and tell him the truth, the whole ugly truth. As I told him the story…. He played with his blackberry. I thought it was rather rude. He obviously thought it was okay. After he showed me his complete lack of interest, I started to feel foolish. I mean, he didn’t bother to dress up for the date. Then he asks me all these questions and just ignores me!<br /><br />Maybe I needed to shift the attention. So, I asked him about his dating experience in LA. And that’s when he said “LA, has the most beautiful women here. But I am looking for someone with substance.” </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">He then went on to tell me a few of the movies he has been in, and ask if I had seen them. He grilled me some more and I answered all his questions with complete honesty. He yawned (yes, he yawned) and I quickly said, “Lets get you home.”<br /><br />The night ended with him saying, “We should do this again.” And him giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I got hopeful. Maybe he didn’t find me boring. Or could he be giving me the old Hollywood brush off. Well, it’s been a few months now. While I have not heard from him, I have seen him on TMZ…… coming from dinner…. with a scantily clad woman. Yea, she had substance. Two big ones sticking out of her dress!!<br /><br />The Moral of THIS story: When you date an actor in LA, you need to have substance.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">XOXO</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Utopia</span>That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6853705640938479451.post-45545025036885289132008-10-27T14:46:00.001-07:002008-11-04T21:19:33.771-08:00The first and last date kinda guy.<div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262638700851573218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 275px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 109px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3H-zF12YfPFwbf1_c8gnLpUxWmbGISZ86xdWucArlftfbEzCDJwra2OuCg7bhsdm716SEHq7SGTQ8D1y9wAwDYDXyvFI__sqwtDFvHrYH5gOlAJrjWVRTT9qw-HF5XBhP2nzKRpWWjc/s320/checkplease.jpg" border="0" />Ok, so let me tell you about this boy I met online. Myspace, or Friendster, I forget. It was a while back. It started out with cute, silly emails. Then not so witty chats but I had nothing going on at that point in my life, so wth. Then ultimately, he popped the big question. "Wanna grab dinner sometime?" Since he was a friend of a friend, 1) I didn't want to be a bitch, 2) A free meal, why not. This was my first online experience, might as well be with someone that knows someone, just in case I suddenly disappear and show up lifeless on Venice beach with seaweed, sand and seagull droppings all over me. So let's call him BoyWonder. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />He was cute and nice as far as I could tell. Short, not a turn off by any means, just not a plus. Not particularly outgoing, but beggars can't be choosers! From the emails we had been exchanging, he seemed as if he had his shit together, and made me giggle, not laugh, here and there.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So the date... I decided to meet BoyWonder on his side of town, at a little restaurant he chose. It looked inexpensive, I mean reeeeally inexpensive. But you can't blame him right? Blind date. I could be crazy, fat, or ugly. Anyways it looked inexpensive. It was probably a B rating but I didn't notice. The food was delish AND inexpensive.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><br /></span>CUT TO: The end of the meal, where we ask for....you guessed it! The check. THE CHECK!!! So the waitress hands BoyWonder the check. He examined it, pulled out a... wait, I can't quite see it... oh, yup, there it is....a TEN dollar bill ladies and gentlemen! Now I'm thinking in my head... wait my meal was $6.95 plus tax....and his order was a super-sized version of what I had. Hmmmm -- And no, we weren't at McDonald's.</span><br /><br />BoyWonder, then hands the check to ME. I was like "OH Heeeeell no!" -- In my head. So I hesitantly, take THE CHECK, and stare at it in amazement. It's total is about 17 bucks. Yes seventeen. 17. One. Seven. Seven plus ten. 7+10... and some change. Ok, ok... more than $17....Sheeesh.<br /><br />I slowly opened up my purse. Looked up at him, for a sign, any sign that would save this date, ANYTHING. Nothing. I then proceeded to pull out my wallet. Again, I shifted my eyes in his direction for maybe a "HALT! I got it!" Nothing. I opened my wallet. Glanced over at him in one last gleam of hope he'd pay for the $17 and some change bill. But, no effort was made on his part. Then in defeat, I pulled out a $10 and handed it to the waitress with the bill and his $10.<br /><br />At that point, I had nothing to say, I was speechless. I think I was in shock more than annoyed. He wanted to get coffee or desert after that. I suddenly felt sick, and said I had to wash my hair or wake up early. Something reeeeaally important. I forget.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Now I hear you muh fuckers saying "maybe he didn't like you that's why he didn't pay, bitch..." Well suckas...he asked me out for another date, and 'til this day...4 years later... he still hits me up every 3 - 4 months, no fail...asking to go out... BOOM!<br /><br />The moral of THIS story: If you ask for the date...YOU need to pay for the date.</span><br /><br />XOXO<br />That Girl</div>That Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103849659896959710noreply@blogger.com2