Everything a Man Hates

See that title? Yeah, that’s about me. Or more specifically, that is what was written about me on my very own Facebook page:

“The more I read from you, the more I do not like you. You’re everything a man hates in a life partner and even a friend. See ya.”

Whoa, Nelly! EVERYTHING a man hates? Even in a friend? Wow. That’s a pretty strong statement there, Mister. Apparently, not only did I fuck his mom and not call her the next day but I also kicked his puppy. Of course, I beg to differ. By saying everything implies that man doesn’t care for my exquisite set of breasticles and derriere. Nor does man care for my sharp wit and ability to do the reverse cowgirl.

Also, earlier this week, on Twitter I was on a list titled “Lick My Ass: For people that can lick my ass all they want and I’ll still think they’re crap”.

While I can fully appreciate a good tossed salad and his ability to distinguish the difference between “there”, “their” and “they’re”, that’s not exactly what I would consider a good time. I don’t kiss ass and I most certainly don’t lick it. Especially the ass of an avatar with 97 followers. Save your lube for somebody else as you won’t be needing it with me.

And a year ago, a whole blog post was dedicated to what a cunt I was. The post was so well written that I was even quoted. I couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that homeboy had definitely done his homework. By the time I was finished reading War and Peace I was left speechless and defeated. But I need to thank the little asswipe for doubling my page hits and readership so in the end I was the victor.

Normally, I wouldn’t even respond to such nonsense on this blog but for some reason I feel compelled to do so now. Knowing that this may indeed open me up to even more unwanted scrutiny, I’m choosing to go forward with this post anyway. I’m outspoken on everything else so why not when it comes to somebody attacking my character?

These certainly haven’t been the only times since the inception of this blog that I’ve had to dodge hate mail and death threats and I’m positive it won’t be the last. I’m crass, I’m abrasive and I have an unfounded sense of self confidence. So fucking what?

I talk a lot of shit. I mean a LOT of shit. There’s certainly no denying that. I do not, however, turn around and send it to the people that I’ve written about. Unless I become notably famous, I seriously doubt that any of the men I have brazenly bashed and mocked for the benefit of humor will ever see or know that my amusement was at their expense. I would consider the above mentioned dickwads full of bravado if it weren’t for them hiding behind a computer screen under the shadow of anonymity.

The first time I received a negative reaction to my writing I almost quit. The thought that I had angered somebody so much as to turn their blog and my Twitter page into a battlefield was almost too much to bear. Having spent days fielding comments and DM’s from people asking why I was even alive definitely took the wind out of my sail and made me question if I was doing the right thing by putting myself and my inner most thoughts in such a public forum. I know I can be abrasive but wishing me death? Now that’s a bit extreme, doncha think?

So, to all those that feel the need to shit on my parade and try to make themselves feel better because they don’t agree with me and the way I relate to things I have this to say:

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

Now, I’d really rather prefer that this be the last time I need to address this issue. I’m much more a fan of talking about sex and dick then I am of defending my actions and sharp tongue. To think my words and this little blog about sex and dating have garnered such animosity is really fascinating to me but as a wise friend once told me: “If people aren’t talking about you then you are doing something wrong.” If this is any indication of things to come then I’m headed in the right direction.

And one last thing, don’t bother leaving negative comments. I will delete them. Why? Because I can. That’s why.

The Proposal

Before I begin, let me apologize for this post being so disjointed.  It was difficult for me to figure out how to cram so much bullshit into one entry ;-)


How It All Began

A year ago I received an email from Loverboy through Plentyoffish. He thought I was cute and I wholeheartedly agreed. Loverboy was supposedly a wannabe Hip Hop artist. Meaning he was unemployed. Our first phone conversation was nothing short of boring and blasé. After that I pretty much wrote him off as I wasn't particularly interested in getting to know a starving artist with the personality of a stop sign, regardless of his amazing abs. He called back a few times but I never felt the undying need to answer and continue our conversation about paint drying and grass growing.

BUT, when I get bored I tend to look for something to amuse me. In other words, that's when I get myself into trouble. I know the signs and I know the results and when I hear the little voice in my head that says "read a book", "take a bubble bath" or "go for a walk around the park" I usually tell it to fuck off because I'm a big girl now and can do whatever I want.

So, against my better judgment, I called Loverboy back and said I could be over in an hour. My first thought when seeing him was YUM! I smirked and told the little bitch inside my head that I was right, she was wrong and neener neener. She'd be thanking me later when we played naked Twister. Without the mat.

The evening went far better than expected. We talked, we made out and he asked me to come back the following evening. I was smitten.

But my gut told me something wasn’t quite right. It was that stupid little bitch in my head again saying "run", "get out" and "don't look back!" To which I replied, "Shut up! He has a 9" dick! I'm not going anywhere!"

The Beginning of the End

Driving out to eat one night in Loverboy’s Tokyo Drift Mercury Cougar, he had the volume of his radio set to approximately 43,000 decibels (which is about 307 times louder than a shotgun blast. I checked). As dogs howled and car alarms went off, I shouted above the song regaling me with tales of slapping bitches and Hennessey reigning supreme, to ask if he could turn the music down. Loverboy gave me a look that said “Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?” and reluctantly turned the radio down just as we pulled into the Pick Up Stix parking lot.

Not since being dropped off for school in my step dads ’73 Ford pickup truck with a Hound dog tied to the bed have I been so mortified. I’m sure we made quite the pair. He in head to toe FuBu and me decked out in Old Navy getting out of a racing car arguing over why or why not it’s for the best to turn the radio down when I’ve heard the word cunt one too many times. He barely spoke to me the rest of the evening.

The relationship took a steady downward spiral after that and it wasn't long before I had to finally concede to that voice inside my head and admit she was right. Loverboy and I were both hard headed and stubborn. I should have known we were doomed from the start. The fact that I later found out he had two baby mamas and a record didn’t help matters either.

The End

I never did find out what he did for a living other than pursuing his dream of being the next Tupac. The one song he actually did play for me was awesomely stupid. It was quite difficult to keep a straight face while listening to it. Even though he claimed to have written it for me I was far from flattered. He couldn’t understand why his early declarations of love were falling on deaf ears and I couldn’t understand why a 36 year old man had a drifting car.

When my fascination with the dick wore off, I split. That was nine months ago.

The Proposal

Every few weeks since I went Houdini on him, he would call. He never left a message and I never answered. I had no desire to go hang with him and his buddies crying over MJ’s death and smoking weed. But, as happens every time I get bored and horny, I do something incredibly stupid and this time was no exception.

I returned Loverboy’s call.

In the time apart, we had both moved locations and gotten new jobs. And when I say “we got new jobs” I really mean “I got a new job”. He seemed almost giddy to hear from me. I decided to stop by and see him after work. He said he missed me like crazy and apologized for not “being the man he should have been” when we were together before. He said things were different now, blah, blah, blah.

I went back and spent Sunday, the 4th of July with him. We basically did nothing but watch bad TV and fuck. It was pretty much how I prefer to spend all my Sundays. Again, he started in with how things were different now and how much he felt he’d been given a second chance and didn’t want to screw it up.

Then, out of nowhere he asked me marry him. He said I was so amazing that I “should be somebody’s wife”.

Did anybody else just pee a little because I sure as hell did. What does that mean anyway? Does he even know me? I sport fuck for fun. I laugh at people that trip and I think that most babies are assholes. What part of that says “Wife” to you?

Shell-shocked and thinking of no less than 49 ways to reject his proposal, I simply told him I didn’t want to get married right now. At all. To anyone.

It was also explained that I needed to take him up on his offer before I got too old and wrinkled and he became famous. Hell, when he puts it that way it’s almost poetic.

The shit I put up with for a decent lay. I’ve clearly gone off my meds.

Happy Anniversary to ME!

Exactly one year ago today, I sat with a friend of mine plotting world domination. Due to a somewhat shady history chalk full of questionable and unwise decisions, we quickly realized running for office may not be the way to go. Marrying well was also not an option as I’m way too opinionated to be anybody’s bitch. It was determined, however, that I’m a narcissistic, sarcastic, sexually liberated and somewhat decent writer (did I mention narcissistic?). Hence, Miss Melisa Mae was born.

Never in a million years would I imagine that even a single person would give two shits about what I had to say. Let alone comment and become loyal followers of my abrasive, somewhat offensive and crazy antics. I’m humbled and flattered by those that take the time to read my bullshit and over usage of the words fuck and penis.

So, in a moment of introspection I’ve decided to list some of the things I have learned in the past year from having this blog. Enjoy…

1. I am an animal. I hunt, I prey and I devour men. I am, in a sense, a predator of the male population as a whole. No man is safe and every once in a while no woman is either.

2. I am not a dating advice blogger. I date, I screw, I write. End of story. Anyone daring enough to ask my advice will probably be lead astray. But it will at least be amusing. For me, anyway.

3. I look really good when holding a camera 38 feet above my head and to the left. If anything can be learned from my 16 year old cousins, it’s that.

4. I have way more sex than I originally thought.

5. I am not the only nutty, sex crazed, 30-something obsessed with biceps and peni.

6. Despite making periodic breaks in my stream of conscious writing, I still have no idea where and when to end a paragraph.

7. Not everybody is going to love me or my writing and those people should be shipped off to the island of misfit toys that's okay.

8. Despite my initial reservations about putting my love life on record and in writing, it has been among the best and most cathartic things I’ve ever done.

9. I now have one year’s worth of blog posts outlining exactly why I’m still single.

10. Not only am I dating to find love, I now also embrace those awkward and disappointing first dates because they make for awesome stories.

11. I still have a great rack.

12. I’m kind of a bitch. But that’s ok. I own it.

And there you have it, kids. I need to run, I have a post to write about an engaged dickwad with huge teeth and a pecker the size of a walnut.

Ciao, babies!