THE BEST FUCKIN' DATE... EVER!

The following will explain why 99.9% of the time I’m only down to fuck.

Dating. I’d rather have five root canals, undergo Chinese water torture and 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.

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.

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.

One red flag was tossed on the field, though.

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.

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:

Hot Fireman: You around to go to the party tonight?

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.

Me: Yes, of course. What time should I expect you?

Hot Fireman: Need to do some things first then off to the races. Will call u what time can u be ready

Me: Whenever you want me to be, what time will you be done so I know

About twenty minutes go by…

Hot Fireman: What time u going

Me: Huh? I thought we were going together?

Hot Fireman: 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 stranded so if u want to drive there and then we can take it from there. Ok.

Two more red flags are thrown on the field, this guy is now trying to get out of the date altogether. And 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.

*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.

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.

Me: Wasn’t really planning on driving, unless you’re really planning on stranding me.

Hot Fireman: Ok I’m in. Then I will be there around that time.

You’re in? I didn’t invite him to go out. He invited me. W-T-F.

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:

Hot Fireman: Grilling dinner call u in forty min thx.

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.

He calls.

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.

O-kay. I feel mildly better, mildly is a strong word.

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.

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.

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?”

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.”

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.”

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.

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?”

“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.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, so you’re still married?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime.”

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.”

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.

“We’ve got a three year-old and it’s hard, you know.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

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’?”

“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. “

He nods.

“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.”

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.

He drops me off. I summon a booty call.

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!

XOXO

Easy Lover

CONFESSIONS OF A COCKOHOLIC

My name is Easy Lover and I'm a Cockoholic. The below is just one of multiple testimonies as to why.

My co-worker has one of the biggest, tastiest looking dick bulge's I've seen in a loooooong time.

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.

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.

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, forced against my will to check it out non-stop and 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.

Co-worker sits four feet six inches from me at work and I swear that is the exact 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 juuust 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 have to.

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.

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 never 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

XOXO

EASY LOVER

THE DICK HUNTER

My adventures in dick hunting have led me on some wild journeys. Some good, some bad, but always 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(Pinkus Snakus), from Gardener-size to the impressively ample Anaconda, nothing quite compares to this.

This is the story of #20, who was filled with surprises aplenty. (Rhyming is cool.)

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.

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.

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 are right upstairs and come in quite handy. Trust.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 tiiiiiiiny problem.

Doug.

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 him 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.

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.

Note: 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.

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.

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 never 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 anything. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 fucking 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.

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.

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.

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 knew 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?

The moral of THIS story: Damn, it’s a small world. Ain't it?

XOXO

EASY LOVER

THE REAL ELEPHANT MAN

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 such 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.

This is the story of #9, who blasted me open like a gold mine.

#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.

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.

We close the joint down and I go with South Africa back to Richie Rich’s house somewhere in the Australian suburbs. (NOTE: 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.

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 large 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…

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.

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 it 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 real. 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.

Cue the porn music, South Africa’s got me hanging from the fucking chandelier. At one point, he sticks his fingers in with the elephant tusk and 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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

Like a bad movie and I mean bad 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.

“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 –

“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 – “

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. “

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.

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.

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.

The moral of THIS story: Kegels, girls, kegels – learn it, live it, love it.

XoXo
Easy Lover

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."

Moral #2: Don't let a big dick poke your cervix... even though that kinda seems like the point.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (If I dated him that long, he probably would've)

Okay here it goes...

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.

Fast forward to the 4th month and quite a few grinch moves later, the turning point was as follows:

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.

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?

WRONG!!!!!!

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?

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?

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?

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.

The moral to THIS story: Never date anyone who doesn't love themselves, but if they're HOT, teach them the Law of Attraction.

XOXO

That Girl

Opportunity in the Land of the Lost

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.

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.

Flash forward a year when the bf turned into the ex bf.

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.
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)
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.

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.

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!

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)!!!!!

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.

The moral of THIS story: When opportunity knocks a dinosaur may rear its ugly head.

XOXO

BadInfluence4yourAZZ

THERE ARE SOME THINGS YOU CAN WATER THAT JUST WON’T GROW

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.

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.

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.

This is the story of #22 – The Angry Inch, which to date is one of my saddest victories.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

XOXO
Easy Lover